The last shot had gotten him in the leg and torn a piece of the muscle off.

The fifth shot of the day tore completely through the mission house, as did the sixth and seventh.

The next shot tore a chunk of wood from the window frame just above his shoulder.

A shot of terrible sympathy for himself tore through Stern.

The first shot tore into the hand holding the knife.

More shots tore the leaves over his head, followed by the sound of running men ahead of him.

"We'd better not go any farther, or the shots from the flank will tear us to pieces."

Lead shot tore into the infantry, hurling men from their feet.

The shot ended all thought, the brain separated as the bullet tore through it.

He was walking on the leg again already, though my shot must have torn the joint to pieces.