Then he went on: "I think they
gave up the notion of whipping. We all got into a bunch, and they couldn't
clear to shoot without hitting some of their own: and there was a lot of
gouging and kicking--one fellow nearly got my left eye, and I tried to
tear him apart and he screamed so that I think he was hurt. Once or twice
I thought I might get away, but somebody hammered me over the head and
face again, and I got dizzy; and then they all jumped away from me
suddenly, and Bob Skillett stepped up--and--shot me. He waited for a good
flurry of lightning, and I was slow tumbling down. Some one else fired a
shot-gun, I think--I can't be sure--about the same time, from the side. I
tried to get up, but I couldn't, and then they got together, for a
consultation. The man I had hurt--I didn't recognize him--came and looked
at me. He was nursing himself all over; and groaned; and I laughed, I--at
any rate, my arm was lying stretched out on the grass, and he stamped his
heel into my hand, and after a little of that I quit feeling.
"I'm not quite clear about what happened afterwards. They went away, not
far, I think. There's an old shed, a cattle-shelter, near there, and I
think the storm drove them under it to wait for a slack. It seemed a long
time. Sometimes I was conscious, sometimes I wasn't. I thought I might be
drowned, but I suppose the rain was good for me.
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