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Three or four thirty-caliber slugs tore holes in their left wing, the rest of the burst missing completely. Joe dove sharply, gained speed, winged over and reached desperately for altitude. The other no, the others were above him. He yelled back at the cameraman, "Put that Chaut-Chaut gun together for me. Be ready to hand me pans of ammo.
It was, apparently, an ordinary thirty-caliber bullet, yet he sensed some subtle difference in size and weight, some vague resemblance to another bullet he had felt and weighed in his hand. Taking his camp lantern he went into the cabin and sat down before a rude table of slabs in the room where the stove was.
First, Brent had been killed by a thirty-caliber, soft-nosed bullet, which the sheriff had in his vest-pocket. Then, from what he had been told, he judged that the man who actually killed Brent would not have remained in plain sight in the lodging-house window while his companion made his get-away.
It is bad enough to be shown up as an assassin; but when one is posed as "cocking the trigger" of a gun, or shooting a "forty-four" bullet from a thirty-caliber "automatic revolver," who in Kentucky could be expected to stand it? The novelists have their troubles, too.
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