Then he crawled back and the hands he laid upon the girl’s shoulders were shaking.
“Tell me,” he gritted, “tell me it did not hit you!”
“I—can’t,” whispered Nance, “my left arm—it feels all full of needles.”
Fair slipped his fingers down along the firm young arm beneath its faded sleeve and found it warm and wet.
Sonny was awake but still as a little quail hid in the grass at its mother’s warning whistle.
There was the sound of a soft opening door beyond, and Mrs. Allison’s voice, low and terror-filled, said, “Nance—girl——”
“Don’t fret, Mammy,” she whispered back, “I’m all right—just a scratch. Pin something on the window before you make a light.”
Bud’s shuffle came round the table and he knelt beside her, feeling for her hands.
“Mammy!” he cried with restrained passion, “I’ll have my Pappy’s gun now—or go with bare hands! You got to gimme it!”
Nance got to her feet with Fair’s arm about her and pushed the door shut. Then the mother struck a light and restored the lamp to the table. In its yellow flare they peeled the sleeve from the girl’s arm and found a shallow wound straight across, about three inches above the elbow.