It was true. A long knife had pierced the bosom of Velveteens, just above the collar-bone, and slanting downward. The hand which planted that knife knew how to direct a fatal blow. The rifle-ball had pierced him through the neck but such a wound was not necessarily fatal, and the knife had finished the bloody work.
“The gal never done that,” said one of the men. “Seems ter me thar’s life in the low cuss, old man.”
“Giv’ us yer flask, then. Whisky’ll bring this critter out of his grave a’most. He don’t desarve it but I want ter question him a bit before he goes under.”
The man handed over the flask, and Old Pegs bathed the lips of the wounded wretch with the strong liquor, and raising his head managed to get a little down his throat. A moment after he gave a gasp and his eyes flared open, gazing with a wild look upon the faces bent above him.
“Whar am I?” he gasped. “Oh, I know now; I’ve got my gruel.”
“You ain’t got long ter live, Velveteens,” said Old Pegs, “and yer mout ez well make a clean breast of it.”
“I’ll tell,” he muttered. “Give me some more whisky—I want strength.”
A few mouthfuls of the fiery liquor gave him life and he spoke more freely.
“Rafe Norris hez got her, curse him!”
“Whar is he?”