Bob tried to lift himself to his elbow; failing that, he put out a hand and laid it on Thurston's shoulder. “Did they—get you—too?” he queried anxiously.
“The damn coyotes!”
“It's nothing; just a leg put out of business,” Thurston hurried to assure him. “Where are you hurt, Bob?”
“Aw, I ain't any X-ray,” Bob retorted weakly but gamely. “Somewheres inside uh me. It went in my side but the Lord knows where it wound up. It hurts, like the devil.” He lay quiet a minute. “I wish—do yuh feel—like finishing—that song, Bud?”
Thurston gulped down a lump that was making his throat ache. When he answered, his voice was very gentle:
“I'll try a verse, old man.”
“The last one—we'd just come to the last. It's most like church. I—I never went—much on religion, Bud; but when a fellow's—going out over the Big Divide.”
“You're not!” Thurston contradicted fiercely, as if that could make it different. He thought he could not bear those jerky sentences.
“All right—Bud. We won't fight over it. Go ahead. The last verse.”
Thurston eased his leg to a better position, drew himself up till his shoulders rested against the rock and began, with an occasional, odd break in his voice: