“Where you hurt, neighbor?”
Antonio caught at the straw the ranchman seemed to extend, and feebly pointed to the wound in his back.
What followed astonished Ninian far more than it did Jessica, who knew the carpenter’s ways. As tenderly, perhaps, because of his greater strength, the old man lifted the injured one and critically examined his wound; his face growing graver as he did so, yet not losing its expression of confidence and decision. When the examination was over, he replaced Antonio on the hard pillow, which had been Pedro’s one luxury, and quietly replied to the poor fellow’s unspoken question, burning in his great dark eyes:
“It’s a bad job, my son. A mighty bad job, and a sneaky one. I’ve seen such before in my time, and they didn’t mean death. To some folks, though, they meant what was worse.”
Nobody would now have recognized the voice which uttered this dictum, it had become so infinitely compassionate and gentle.
Antonio caught one meaning only: “I will not die? I need not die? It is you who will save me, yes? O’santos Dios!”
He had half risen from the bed, but now sank back, exhausted by the shock of emotion as well as by the physical effort; and Jessica sprang forward, terrified by the sudden pallor of his swarthy face. But John put her quietly aside and himself placed a flask to Antonio’s lips, saying:
“You’ve done your part well, my noble little captain, and you’ve done me proud. It’s my place now.”
The senor soon rallied, and again fixed his eyes imploringly on Benton’s face, as he sat on the edge of the bed beside him.