“We better look out,” said one of the young men, “how we go fooling around in here. If he's alive yet he's just as liable as not to think we're after him and take a shot at us.”
“I guess there ain't much fight left in him,” another answered. “Look at the wheat here.”
“Lord! He's bled like a stuck pig.”
“Here's his hat,” abruptly exclaimed the leader of the party. “He can't be far off. Let's call him.”
They called repeatedly without getting any answer, then proceeded cautiously. All at once the men in advance stopped so suddenly that those following carromed against them. There was an outburst of exclamation.
“Here he is!”
“Good Lord! Sure, that's him.”
“Poor fellow, poor fellow.”
The cow-puncher lay on his back, deep in the wheat, his knees drawn up, his eyes wide open, his lips brown. Rigidly gripped in one hand was his empty revolver.
The men, farm hands from the neighbouring ranches, young fellows from Guadalajara, drew back in instinctive repulsion. One at length ventured near, peering down into the face.