"Head 'em off!" someone called. "They'll get away in the street!"
That was how the riot at Port Knakvik started.
Watts ran off after the mob chasing the natives, perhaps with some idea of explaining, more likely not—he was in a half mindless rage of excitement with the whiskey and the fighting. McCullough was left alone with Tallant and the two natives. The native woman seemed unhurt, she was picking herself up and examining the infant, which still whimpered. Tallant was unconscious. McCullough picked him up and carried him into the house.
His wife was standing white-faced at the door.
"Get some water," he said. He laid Tallant on a cot and began to wipe off his face. There was a scalp cut where Watts' boot had clipped him, most of the blood was coming from that; but it was high and it did not feel like a fracture. Presently Tallant groaned and shook his head and opened his eyes. The pupils did not look bad.
"How do you feel?" McCullough asked.
"Rough," Tallant mumbled. "Rough. Side ... hurts...."
McCullough pulled up the shirt and looked. There was a swelling purplish bruise on the chest. He touched it gently and drew a gasp of pain.
"Looks like maybe you got a cracked rib," he said. "Get me some tape, will you, Mary?" He took the roll of tape and wound it tightly about Tallant's chest.