Whispering Smith
The man in the sagebrush turned his head.
Smith walked to him and bent down. “Are you suffering much, Du Sang?”
The wounded man, sinking with shock and internal hemorrhage, uttered a string of oaths.
Smith listened quietly till he had done; then he knelt beside him and put his hand on Du Sang’s hand. “Tell me where you are hit, Du Sang. Put your hand to it. Is it the stomach? Let me turn you on your side. Easy. Does your belt hurt? Just a minute, now; I can loosen that.”
“I know you,” muttered Du Sang thickly. Then his eyes—terrible, rolling, pink eyes—brightened and he swore violently.
“Du Sang, you are not bleeding much, but I’m afraid you are badly hit,” said Whispering Smith. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
“Get me some water.”
A creek flowed at no great distance below the hill, but the cowboys refused to go for water. Whispering Smith would have gone with Seagrue and Karg, but Du Sang begged him not to leave him alone lest Gorman should kill him. Smith canvassed the situation a moment. “I’ll put you on my horse,” said he at length, “and take you down to the creek.”
He turned to the cowboys and asked them to help, but they refused to touch Du Sang.
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