When the baron gave him some stimulant from his pocket flask, the prospector regained enough animation to be able to talk.
“Tough luck, pard!” he said. “They got Austin!
“Unt der dreasure!”
“Yes. I didn’t see but two of ’em. If they hadn’t surprised us, we might ’a’ done something. But thar wasn’t much show, when they riz up shootin’ as they riz. If you think they’re gone, see if that bullet is still in my side, will ye?”
The baron made the examination, his rifle on the ground where he could pick it up instantly.
“Der pullet vendt t’rough,” he said, when he had looked the man over. “You needt der hosbidal pooty kvick, I dell you.”
“I reckon I’ll never git thar, with the burros gone.”
The baron gave the man more stimulant; then plugged the wound and bandaged it as well as he could, tearing the man’s shirt into strips for the purpose.
Having done that, he stood back and looked the man over.
“I dhinks maype I gan carry you,” he said. “You aind’t so heavy as me.”