"Haven't you got enough at home," Buckley demanded,
"without playing around here?"

Anger swiftly rose to Gordon Makimmon's head.
His hand fell and remained close by his side.
"Keep your tongue off my home," he commanded
harshly, "or you will get more than a horsewhipping."

"By God," Buckley articulated. His face
changed from dark to pale, his mouth opened, his
eyes were staring. He fumbled desperately in his
pocket. Gordon's hand closed smoothly, instantly,
about the handle of his revolver. But, before he
could level it, an arm shout out from behind him,
and a stone the size of two fists sped like a bullet,
striking Buckley Simmons where his hair and forehead
joined. Gordon, in a species of shocked curiosity
and surprise, clearly saw the stone hit the
other. There was a sound like that made by a heel
breaking a scum of ice on a frozen road.

Buckley said, "Ah," half-turned, and dropped like
a piece of carpet.

The belligerent attitude instantly evaporated
from the group behind the stricken man. "Gracious,"
some one muttered foolishly. They all
joined in a stooping circle about the prostrate figure.
It was seen immediately that the skull was broken --
a white splinter of bone stood up from a matted

[[197]]

p196 _ -chap- _ toc-1 _ p197w _ toc-2 _ +chap+ _ p198

v?