“All right. You hail him. I’m hurt too bad to call so loud,” added Colton, with a sickly laugh.
“Hellow—the house! You Hen Colton—I say—durn it all, man be ye deef?” roared Thompson, supporting the young man upon one strong arm.
“What’s wanting out there?” demanded a clear, strong voice from the interior.
“You’re wanted—got a sick man here thet needs a little doctorin’. Some kin o’ your’n, I reckon. Says he’s your brother.”
“What’s that?” and the heavy door was cautiously swung ajar a few inches.
“It’s me, Henry,” and the young man’s voice trembled.
“What’s the matter with you?” the settler demanded, a trace of suspicion in his tones.
“Nothin’ much—only cut up a little. Monte Pete an’ One-eyed Johnny doubled teams on him, down to the Corners. They’re subjects for a fust-class wake, an’ the lad here is hurt consid’able. He would hev me fetch him here—said he wanted to make it up ’th you, or somethin’ like that. But I reckon he’s wuth two dead critters yit,” hastily explained the tall outlaw.
“It’s true, Henry. Give me shelter for one night, or until my hurts can be looked to. You will?”
“Of course—you are my brother still, though you had acted twice as bad as you have done. Come—let me help you.”