“Ought to be one more,” said Wilbur, anxiously hastening for-ward.
As the two came up the coolies parted, and Wilbur saw one of them, his head propped upon a rolled-up blouse, lying ominously still on the trampled sand.
“It's Charlie!” exclaimed Moran.
“Where's he hurt?” cried Wilbur to the group of coolies. “Jim!—where's Jim? Where's he hurt, Jim?”
Jim, the only member of the crew besides Charlie who could understand or speak English, answered:
“Kai-gingh him fin' pistol, you' pistol; Charlie him fight plenty; bime-by, when he no see, one-piecee Kai-gingh he come up behin', shoot um Charlie in side—savvy?”
“Did he kill him? Is he dead?”
“No, I tinkum die plenty soon; him no savvy nuttin' now, him all-same sleep. Plenty soon bime-by him sleep for good, I tink.”
There was little blood to be seen when Wilbur gently unwrapped the torn sleeve of a blouse that had been used as a bandage. Just under the armpit was the mark of the bullet—a small puncture already closed, half hidden under a clot or two of blood. The coolie lay quite unconscious, his eyes wide open, drawing a faint, quick breath at irregular intervals.
“What do you think, mate?” asked Moran in a low voice.