wounded Sheriff and his bleeding companion turned their horses and galloped away.
The messenger sank to a sitting posture, laid his empty, smoking revolver upon the ground, and gazed at his new found friend.
"Are you hit?" asked the latter, coming toward the young man, and the messenger made no reply until he had given his hand to the stranger; then he answered "Yes."
The dark man opened the messenger's shirt (and he did it as deliberately as he had kicked the Ute from the Lone Spruce saloon), examined the shattered shoulder and then the broken ankle, and asked, "Is that all?"
"Yes," said the wounded man; "is n't that enough?"
"Not if they meant to kill you, for they have n't found your vitals. What a lot of farmers to go shootin' a man in the foot—guess they wanted you to dance. That top scratch was n't bad. Reckon you must have got that in the previous engagement, eh? The blood's begun to thicken up. I see that fellow's hoss go over the cliff; gee, he must have fell a mile."
The dark man had risen after examining the
