“He’s done for me, Harry. I shan’t live till morning.”
“Don’t say that, Bush. Perhaps you’re not so much hurt as you think for.”
“There’s no hope, lad. I’m going to die. I don’t know why, but I had a presentiment that death wasn’t far off.”
By this time the occupants of two neighboring tents had come up. Seeing Henderson lying groaning just outside, they entered and asked what was the trouble.
It was soon explained.
Now Bush was popular among the miners, and Henderson the reverse, his character being thoroughly understood.
“We’ll hang him to the nearest tree,” they said.
“Wait till to-morrow,” said Harry. “Then let the whole company of miners decide what is to be done.”
To this at length they assented, but cast glances far from friendly at the prostrate wretch, with whose groans of pain were now mingled appeals for mercy.