“The left.”
“Were you thrown?”
“No.”
The stranger noted the soiled condition of the injured man’s clothing. He saw that a spur had been torn off, and among the drying dirt on Power’s face and hands were some more ominous streaks; since a man may not squirm in agony beneath a shower of jagged granite and escape some nasty abrasions of the skin.
“I see,” he said gently. “You fell from up there somewhere,” and he looked at the cliff, “tripped over that missing spur, I suppose. Well, what’s to be done? Were you at the ranch? I didn’t happen to come across you. Shall I take you there?”
“No, please—to Bison—to MacGonigal’s store.”
“Ah, yes. But it’s an awkward business. You can’t possibly hold yourself in the saddle. Can you stand on one leg, even for a few seconds?”
“But if I carry you to the face of the rock there, and prop you against it?”
“Yes, I’ll do that.”