“Boys,” said Billy, “that’s the man in gray who wore the visored cap we found back yonder. I’ll swear to that. Is he dead?”
Phil and Dave, stooping closely, examined the man, and in so doing turned his head to one side. There, near the temple, was a purplish blot, from which a few drops of blood were trickling. At the same time certain movements, not unlike muscular tremors, were evident in body and limbs.
“Why, he’s alive!” said Paul. “Let’s get him more comfortably placed.”
While this was being done Worth picked up a tin cup, ran to a rocky puddle in the dried brooklet where some water was left, and returning with the filled cup bathed the fellow’s face and head, very gently now that they knew life was not extinct.
This, aided by the more comfortable position in which he had been placed, had such effect that the man’s eyes soon opened. He groaned as he breathed, while with one hand he attempted to feel his head near what was now seen to be a bullet wound. Paul, wiping his head, felt a protuberance under his hair, and directly thereafter drew forth a small pointed bullet, such as is much used with pocket pistols of the Smith & Wesson type.
“Well, well!” exclaimed that lively youth. “If here ain’t a regular twenty-two pistol ball. It must have glanced along under the skin near the temple and come out again. Who could have done it?”
When the man felt Paul’s hand extracting the ball from his mass of touzled hair, he clutched at the place, saying:
“I always—told—Dippy—that gun—was no—good—” A scuffling sigh, and the fellow was again in a swoon.
What had they better do now? Here was their car, all right except for some scars and bruises incurred during the last flight after Billy was captured and stowed away in the old tavern. Where was the other man? As usual in such stress, Phil again took command of the situation.
“This man’s not dead. He may recover. He’s either been shot by someone or he’s shot himself, which isn’t likely.”