"Hello," said Steve weakly, opening his eyes.
"Are you hurt, Moffatt? Hurt bad?"
"Pretty bad, I reckon," said the injured man. "He done got me here."
He placed a hand over his right breast. There was a knife wound high up, which was bleeding generously, but not enough to cause alarm. Johnson unfastened the shirt and inspected the cut. It was deep, but the Mexican's thrust had been diverted and had gone high, toward the shoulder. Lafe did not think that the lung had been pierced or that there was internal hemorrhage. He removed the bandage from his ankle, found some water dripping from crevices in the cliff, bathed and bound the wound.
Said Moffatt: "Gee, I wish I had a drink."
Johnson caught some in his hat, and cooled his face when he had drunk. The outlaw seemed grateful.
"You ain't got anything to eat, have you?" he inquired.
"I reckon you're feeling better? What'd you like? A steak with onions?"
Moffatt grinned, made a wry face and sat up painfully.
"Where did that fool Mexican go to?" he asked.