"You'll sure have a sore side, kid. Keep down tight. Don't take no more chances." But a moment afterward he grunted and his rifle clattered against the rocks.
"What is it?"
"My right arm. Busted above the elbow." He breathed deeply with the first pain throbs following the shock, and gritted his teeth. "Ain't this hell? I'm out of it for rifle shootin'. Here, come and cut off my shirt sleeve and tie her up some. See how much blood she's pumpin'! Take a turn above the hole and twist her up tight. Blamed if I want to bleed to death. I got a lot of things to see to first."
Sandy examined the wound by the feeble light of matches, which McHale held in his left hand, and declared that the arteries were uninjured. He cut off a leg of his trousers below the knee, and, with McHale's shirt sleeve, organized a bandage, binding it with the thongs of his moccasins, swearing steadily below his breath.
McHale leaned back against the rock and demanded his pipe. Sandy filled it, and held a match to the load. McHale puffed great smoke clouds into the darkness.
"Tobacco's sure a fine anæsthetic. She beats chloroform and tooth jerkers' gas. And now, kid, you git!"
"Do what?"
"Make a get-away. Hike. Leak out o' this. You can do it in the dark just as easy as a weasel."
"Say," said Sandy, "you didn't get hit alongside the head, too, did you?"
"Not yet. This is straight goods. I mean it. There's no use you stickin'. There's too many accidents happenin'. Come mornin' maybe you don't git a chance."