“Perfectly conscious, sir, but he will utter no word.”
“His pallid face shows that death is not far off.”
“Yes, sir; I have told him that he must die, that he can live but an hour or more, and that I could do nothing for him, though I have tried. But the wound is mortal.” Stevens showed where the bullet had torn its way.
Buffalo Bill knelt by the side of the dying man, who was beyond doubt an American, for his hair was light in hue, and his eyes dark blue. He was dressed in buckskin leggings, a blue woolen shirt, moccasins, and a slouch hat, but, in strange contrast, about him was wrapped a large white robe, intended to be white, though much soiled. He had had on a belt of arms, but it had been removed by Texas Jack to make him more comfortable.
The man’s blue eyes rested upon Buffalo Bill with a strange expression in them.
“My poor fellow, I am sorry I can do nothing for you,” said Buffalo Bill kindly.
The man shook his head.
“Can you not talk?”
“Yes.” The word was distinctly uttered.
“Will you not tell me if I can serve you in some way?”