Davitt nodded, and his face cleared. “All right. But I see plain how come Sam Fisher missed us with them two shots; he done the work with his left hand.”
“He didn’t miss far at that.” Buck shivered a little.
“Thanks,” said Sam Fisher, opening his eyes. “So it ain’t a dream after all, Buck? Say, I’d appreciate it a lot if you gents would do somethin’ to my right knee.”
Buck looked at his companion. By tacit consent they rose and approached their victims, who had been thoroughly disarmed. Fisher turned his head and inspected Steve Arnold.
“Well, this ain’t so bad!” he observed. “Look after Steve first, Buck. His leg is sure pumping out a lot o’ blood. Tie him up good.”
“You shut up,” said Buck roughly. “Catch on here, Sandy.”
They rudely bandaged Arnold’s leg, found that his scalp wound was not serious, and turned to Sam Fisher. Investigation confirmed his previous schedule of injuries.
“She’s dislocated,” announced Sandy. “Buck, catch hold of the ankle; I got the thigh. Go to it.”
Sam Fisher lay back, his fingers gripping at the dirt, a sweat of agony beading his brow. It was done. He said no word as the two men effected a hasty bandaging of his broken right wrist and wounded shoulder. Then they stood erect above him.
“Sandy,” said Buck, steady and calm once more, “you got to ride on the back trail in a hurry. Find the boys we left with Jake Harper and bring ’em on.”