“No good, señorita, it is the death of him,” he said gently. “One stroke like that on the heart and it is––adios!”
“What in the name of God––” began Singleton, and Kit wiped the blood from his eyes and faced him, staggering and breathless.
“Get him water! Get busy!” he ordered. “I don’t think he’s done for, not unless he has some mighty weak spot he should have had labelled before he waded into this.”
The blood was still trickling from the cut in his head made by the wrench, and he presented an unholy appearance as they stared at him.
“I’ll explain, Singleton, for I reckon you are white. I’ll––after while–––”
“You’ll explain nothing to me!” retorted Singleton “If the man dies you’ll explain to a jury and a judge; otherwise you’d better take yourself out of this country.”
Kit blinked at those who were lifting Conrad and listening to his heart, which evidently had not stopped permanently.
“But give me a chance, man!” persisted Rhodes. “I need some mending done on this head of mine,––then I’ll clear it up. Why, the evidence is right here––powdered glass for the stock at the far end of the trail––Herrara knows––Conrad’s game––and–––”
He did not know why words were difficult and the faces moved in circles about him. The blood soaking his shirt and blouse, and dripping off his sleeve was cause enough, but he did not even know that.
“Take him away, Captain Pike,” said Singleton coldly. “He is not wanted any longer on either of the ranches. It’s the last man I hire, Conrad can do it in future.”