Rose flung herself from the saddle and ran to him
"It is there," said Rose, dully, pointing to the right thigh.
"Ah," breathed Whitby, in a sigh of relief. He cut the cloth but forbore to tear it away, the coagulated blood having stopped the bleeding. "Drilled through!" he exclaimed. "Why, the swine must have been near enough to do better than that. How ever did he miss? We 'll bandage this as it is, Miss LaFrance, and do it properly at—now, should you say take him to the doctor at Wayback?"
"No. He is a drunken beast. I will nurse him."
"Very well. A good nurse is better than a drunken doctor. Just cut this sleeve from my shirt, will you?"
Rose took the knife and cut, instead, a three-inch strip from the bottom of her skirt, Whitby meanwhile producing a flask, from which he carefully fed Buck small quantities of whiskey. Rose tendered him the bandage. "Well rolled, Miss LaFrance! Have you been taught this sort of thing?" Rose silently nodded her head. "My word! Buck is in luck. You apply the bandage then, while I give him this. You 'll make a better job of it than I should."
Buck slowly opened his eyes to see Whitby's face bending over his. "Got away, Whit," he whispered, weakly; "ambushed me, by G—d," and relapsed into unconsciousness.
"Much blood! He have lose much blood," murmured Rose.
"Yes," assented Whitby. "How shall we carry him? He can never ride."