He reached up one hand, and Pete helped him to his feet. Swaying a little, he looked around the corral. Farrish was on the outside, gazing down the road where Sunnysides was now almost out of sight, a mere yellow spot in a cloud of dust. Curly was jerking Craven’s horse to its feet.
“What’s the matter there?” called Haig.
“Bill’s hurt!” answered Curly.
With Pete at his side, not yet assured that all was well with him, Haig walked unsteadily to where Bill lay against the fence.
“What is it, Craven?” he asked.
“Leg broke. My horse fell on me,” Bill answered weakly. He had, besides, a gash in the left side of his head, from which the blood flowed down his face.
“Into the barn with him!” Haig ordered quietly.
They placed him on a cot, and Pete gave him a long pull at his ever-ready flask.
“I’m sorry, Bill!” said Haig, looking down at him.
“It’s my own fault,” replied Craven. “An’ it serves me damned right for lettin’ him get by me.”