“Where did you get it?” Teddy asked quickly.
“Chest—” and Kolto went into a fit of coughing. When it subsided he asked:
“Where’s Denver?”
Roy pointed silently, and, pushing himself up on one elbow, Kolto stared over the prairie. In the distance four horsemen were burning up the ground. They were beaten—they had failed. Two of them had bullet holes in their skins. The score was even.
“Good riddance,” Kolto whispered. “Say, where’s yore dad?”
Mr. Manley rode up at the moment. He had ordered the chase discontinued, as useless. They had got their cattle back. What good would it do to kill the rustlers?
Mr. Manley had seen Kolto fall, but he knew Teddy and Roy were nearer than he, so he had continued to gallop after Denver Smith. But now the fight was over. Mr. Manley rode up to where Jules Kolto lay and quickly dismounted.
“What’s the trouble, son?” he asked solicitously. He bent over and ripped Kolto’s shirt open. There was a small wound in the right shoulder. He turned the man over gently, and found a corresponding hole at the back. The bullet had passed completely through.
“Whoever used a bullet like that is a mighty poor judge of firearms,” Mr. Manley said grimly. “You’re lucky, Kolto. Not a chance of your passin’ out. The bullet hit your collar bone and knocked you off your horse. You got a nice hole in you—but that’s all it’ll amount to.”
“I—I won’t die?” Kolto asked, sitting up and looking uncertainly about.