“We can carry him down to the trail. Then, if Deacon is all right when we get him up, we can put your partner on him and pack him home. It’s only a mile or so.”
“It might be better to take him to Nelson,” Rawley amended the suggestion. “I could get a car there and take him on to Las Vegas, probably. Or some mine will have a doctor.”
“It’s farther—and the heat, with the long ride, would probably finish him,” the girl pointed out bluntly. “On the other hand, a mile on the burro will get him home, where it’s cool and we can see how badly he’s hurt. And then, if he needs hospital care, Uncle Peter can take him down to Needles in the launch, this evening when it’s cool. I really don’t mean to be disagreeable and argumentative, but it seems to me that will be much the more comfortable plan for him. And I can’t help feeling responsible, in a way. I suppose he was trying to protect us, when he was shot.”
Rawley looked up from an amateurish examination of the old man. The bullet wound was in the shoulder, and he was hoping that it was high enough so that the lung was not injured. His flask of brandy, placed at Johnny’s lips, brought a gulp and a gasp. The black eyes opened, looked from Rawley to the girl and closed again.
“There! I believe he’s going to be all right,” the girl declared optimistically. “I’ll take his feet, and you carry his shoulders. When we get him down to the trail, I’ll have Grandmother look after him until we get the burros straightened out. Queo—or whoever it was—did you see him?”
Rawley waved a hand toward the rocky ravine. “You heard me shoot,” he reminded her. “Missed him—with that heirloom Johnny carries. He was running like a jackrabbit when I saw him last. Well, I think you’re right—but I hate to trouble you folks. Though I’d trouble the president himself, for Johnny Buffalo’s sake.”
“It’s a strange name,” she remarked irrelevantly, stooping and making ready to lift his knees. “He must be a Northern Indian.”
“Born in this district,” Rawley told her. “Grandfather found him in the desert when he was a kid. I suppose he gave him the name—regardless.”
Until they reached the trail there was no further talk, their breath being needed for something more important. They laid the injured man down in the shade of a greasewood, and the girl immediately left to bring the old squaw. She was no sooner gone than Johnny Buffalo opened his eyes.
“It was Queo,” he said, huskily whispering. “I thought he was shooting at you. I tried to kill him. But the damn gun is old—old. It struck me hard. I did not shoot straight. I did not kill him. Queo looked, he saw me and he shot as he ran away. The gun has killed many—but I am old—”