“He’s goin’ to die,” Doc Ritter announced after a hurried examination, “but he’ll come back for a second or so before he goes. Somebody give me some whiskey.”
Scanlon obliged, and between them they fanned the man’s dying spark of life into a smoldering flame. Tobias eyed the five of them in turn. Johnny held his gaze.
“Can you talk?” the boy asked.
Gale tried to move his lips, but no intelligent sound came from them.
“Wait, I’ll lift up his head a bit,” Doc volunteered.
Gale licked his lips. Seconds dragged by before he made a sound. When he did speak it was in flat, lifeless tones. He was looking at Ritter. “I’m dying, ain’t I, Doc?” he asked.
“You’re pretty bad off,” Doc told him honestly.
Tobias just gazed helplessly at Ritter, searching the doctor’s face for sign of the truth which he feared. The little man’s eyelids drew back from the pupils of his eyes as he read his fate.
“Oh, God, Doc, I don’t want to die!” he moaned. “I’m afraid of it. I can feel it coming on. It’s awful!”
An unearthly sound broke from his lips. Ritter forced more of the whiskey down his throat. “Tell me what happened,” he demanded. “Who shot you?”