High up in the air several specks sailed and drifted, more coming up rapidly from all directions.

Buzzards know well where food can be found.
As Hopalong leaned back against a rock he was hit in the thigh by a ricochet that tore its way out, whirling like a circular saw, a span above where it entered.

The wound was very nasty, being ripped twice the size made by an ordinary shot, and it bled profusely.

Skinny crawled over and attended to it, making a tourniquet of his neckerchief and clumsily bandaging it with a strip torn from his shirt.
"Yore shore lucky, yu are," he grumbled as he made his way back to his post, where he vented his rancor by emptying the semi-depleted magazine of his Winchester at the knoll.
Hopalong began to sing and shout and he talked of Jimmy and his childhood, interspersing the broken narrative with choice selections as sung in the music halls of Leavenworth and Abilene.

He wound up by yelling and struggling, and Skinny had his hands full in holding him.
"Hopalong! Cassidy! Come out of that! Keep quiet--yu'll shore git plugged if yu don't stop that plungin'.