In a minute another corner heaved upward a foot or more.

Patsy had yelled while he felt around in the darkness for his clothes, and had got no answer, save other heavings from below.
Patsy was not the man to submit tamely to such indignities.

He had groped and found his old 45-70 riffle, that made a noise like a young cannon and kicked like a broncho cow.

While the shack lurched this way and that, Patsy pointed the gun toward the greatest disturbance and fired.

He did not think: he hit anybody, but he apologized to Irish for missing and blamed the darkness for the misfortune.