She had no doubt about the man before her. Whatever he had done, it was nothing dirty or mean—of that she was sure.
“Yes, I’m Jenny Long,” she answered. “What have you done? What are they after you for?”
“THEY SHOT ME AN’ HURT ME”
“Oh! to-morrow,” he answered—“to-morrow I got to git to Bindon. It’s life or death. I come from prospecting two hundred miles up North. I done it in two days and a half. My horse dropped dead—I’m near dead myself. I tried to borrow another horse up at Clancey’s, and at Scotton’s Drive, but they didn’t know me, and they bounced me. So I borrowed a horse off Weigall’s paddock, to make for here—to you. I didn’t mean to keep that horse. Hell, I’m no horse-stealer! But I couldn’t explain to them, except that I had to git to Bindon to save a man’s life. If people laugh in your face, it’s no use explainin’. I took a roan from Weigall’s, and they got after me. ’Bout six miles up they shot at me an’ hurt me.”
She saw that one arm hung limp at his side and that his wrist was wound with a red bandana.
She started forward. “Are you hurt bad? Can I bind it up or wash it for you? I’ve got plenty of hot water here, and it’s bad letting a wound get stale.”
He shook his head. “I washed the hole clean in the creek below. I doubled on them. I had to go down past your place here, and then work back to be rid of them. But there’s no telling when they’ll drop onto the game, and come back for me. My only chance was to git to you. Even if I had a horse, I couldn’t make Bindon in time. It’s two days round the gorge by trail. A horse is no use now—I lost too much time since last night. I can’t git to Bindon to-morrow in time, if I ride the trail.”