"Here," he cried, "you take this."
Jim took the thing in his hand—a flattened bullet, all torn around the edges and streaked with blood.
For some time he just sat staring at that bullet, scared by his own thoughts. "Captain," says he at last, "Curly's not dying?"
"Why, not to any great extent, my son." McCalmont lay back on a dirt floor, and yawned. "He's sleeping a whole lot now, and if you'll stay around in case he wakes, I'll take a few myself; I'm kinder tired."
The robber dropped off to sleep, and Jim sat watching beside him. At noon the boys off duty in the yard called him to dinner, but McCalmont slept far into the afternoon. Then of a sudden he started broad awake, his hand on his gun, staring out at the blazing heat of the desert.
"That's all right," says he; "three hours' rest is enough for hawsses and robbers, so I reckon I've took more'n my share."
"Curly's still sleeping," says Jim.
"I'll catch some lunch, then."
Jim watched him ranging about the yard, bread in one hand, meat in the other, eating his dinner while he hustled his men to work. He kept three young robbers busy until the camp gear was stowed for travel, and all the litter was hid away out of sight. Then he made them bury the ashes of the camp fire, and smooth over all the tracks until the ground looked as though there had been no visitors for a week.
After that he brought a pencil and notebook for Jim.