At that instant there was another heavy floundering behind the bushes and another brutish moan of 107 pain. With this full consciousness came to the injured ranchman and he tried to rise, crying in his own distress:
“That’s Comanche!”
“Forty-niner” gravely nodded.
“He’s hurt?” demanded Marty, as if he defied the answer to be affirmative.
Ephraim turned away his face. To them, horses were almost as human beings, and the love of a master for his beast was something fraternal.
“Help me to him,” said the ranchman, staggering to his feet.
“Better not, lad. Best trust to me,” protested the elder man.
“Trust––what?”
The look in Ephraim’s eyes was all the answer needed to this fierce question, and Marty turned away his own gaze as he faltered the next one:
“Yes, mate, but take it like a man. Better him than you, and––give me the gun.”