He lost his footing almost at once and rolled. He managed to break the fall with his hands, and brought himself to a stop, unhurt, not far from the two injured men.
Joe Hansart, he saw at a glance, was the more seriously injured. The old man lay in a crumpled heap, bleeding from a head wound. Walz was conscious, though in a state of semi-shock.
“Help me,” he whimpered. “Help me. My leg is broken.”
Ignoring Walz for the moment, Jack checked Joe Hansart’s bleeding. The wound was superficial. The old man, however, was pale, and his lips were blue. His pulse was weak and rapid. He drew breath irregularly and with difficulty.
“Take it easy,” Jack advised. “Help is on the way.”
He moved the old man so that his head lay downhill. He was relieved to see that this position restored Joe’s color a trifle and improved his pulse, but he saw that the prospector was quivering from shock and chill. Stripping off his jacket, he covered the old man.
Leaving him for the moment, he turned his attention to the whimpering motel owner.
“I’m dying,” Walz moaned. “The pain is horrible. Do something!”
It was plain to see that the motel owner’s left leg was broken. Possibly, too, he had suffered some internal injuries. Jack, however, was inclined to doubt it, for Walz, now that he had partially recovered from the stunning impact, was becoming talkative.
“Don’t move,” Jack advised the moaning fellow. “Lie still until we can splint that leg.”