"Is that all? Sad. I thought you'd lost a railroad or a steamship or something. Cheer up! Things might be better."
"I think I like to smoke," said Miguel, quite seriously. "I will ride back and get some tobacco and some more papers."
"That ain't all you'll get. Here, smoke up. You look fine in that peek-a-boo shirt. Never knowed you had such a good shape. What size gloves do you wear, pet?" And Pars Long passed tobacco and papers to Miguel, who rolled a cigarette and smoked contentedly.
"Billy, you look sick," said Bud Light.
"Oh, no! I want to go to a dance, right away. Whoa!"
They drew rein. Williams, dismounting, was bending over his companion Overland, who had suddenly slipped from the saddle.
"Where's he punctured?" queried Bud Light.
Williams examined the prostrate man. "Kind of low down, and in the side. 'T ain't bad, but it's bad enough. Got any whiskey?"
"You bet! I got a pocket-gun here. Swiped it in the saloon." And Pars Long handed a flask to Williams.
The riders, standing round the fallen man, watched Williams as he bound up the wound, which was bleeding slowly. The whiskey partially revived Overland. He managed finally to cling to the saddle, supported by Williams.