"Who
are you?" he questioned, stooping above the man. The other dragged
himself to Sundown's feet and clawed at his knees. "'Sandro . . . It
is--that I--die. You don' keel . . . You don' . . ."
Sundown dragged the herder to the house and into the bedroom. He got
water, for which the herder called piteously. With his own blanket he
made him as comfortable as he could. Then he built a fire that he
might have light. The herder was shot through the thigh, and had all
but bled to death dragging himself across the mesa from where he had
fallen from his horse. Sundown tried to stop the bleeding with strips
torn from his bandanna. Meanwhile the wounded man was imploring him
not to kill him.
"I'm doin' me best to fix you up, Dago," said Sundown. "But you better
go ahead and say them prayers--and you might put in a couple for Sinker
what you shot. I reckon his slug cut the big vein and you got to go.
Wisht I could do somethin' . . . to help . . . you stay . . . but mebby
it's better that you cross over easy. Then the boys don't get you."
The Mexican seemed to understand. He nodded as he lay gazing at the
lean figure illumined by the dancing light of the open stove.
Pages:
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290