“Sure,” he mumbled, when the meaning of the reiterated question penetrated to his consciousness. “I’m—all—right.”
Then his head began to clear, and, slowly straightening his sagging shoulders, he glanced down at the hulking figure sprawling motionless amidst the debris of the wrecked table.
“Is—he—” he began slowly.
“He’s out, that’s all,” stated Jessup crisply. 177 “Golly, Buck! That was some punch.” He paused, regarding his friend eagerly. “What are yuh goin’ to do now?” he asked.
A tiny trickle of blood from Stratton’s cut lip ran down his chin and splashed on the front of his torn, disordered shirt.
“Wash, I reckon,” he answered, with a twisted twitch of his stiff lips that was meant to be a smile. “I sure need it bad.”
“But I mean after that,” explained Bud. “Don’t yuh want me to saddle up while you’re gettin’ ready? There ain’t no point in hangin’ around till he comes to.”
Buck took a step or two away from the wall and regarded the prostrate Lynch briefly, his glance also taking in McCabe, who bent over him.
“I reckon not,” he agreed briefly. “Likewise, if I don’t get astride a cayuse mighty soon, I won’t be able to climb onto him at all. Go ahead and saddle up, kid, and I’ll be with you pronto. You’d better ride to town with me and bring back the horse.”
Bud nodded and, breaking the Colts one after another, pocketed the shells and dropped the weapons into a near-by bunk.