But he was sulky.
"Put that down," said I, "it's dynamite!"
I grabbed too late. Rams had thrown the stick at my chipmunk, and it whirled, spinning over and over until it struck the anvil.
A red flower seemed to bud there, which grew to a giant blossom, filling the world.
A pain in my right thigh pulled me awake, to find myself on a bunk inside the shack. Shorty was cooking by stove-light, while wisps of red smoke toiled round his lanky frame, and rain thrashed the roof. The wind leaped at the cabin, roaring like a beast.
"Rams killed?" I ask.
"We set a broken arm," he said, "and packed him to the Throne. How do you feel?"
"Dunno. Surprised, I think. Where's Broach?"
"Taken your horses down to your camp. He'll bring up grub, and a doctor. Here's some coffee."
I found that my thigh was snapped, a simple fracture which my friends had set and splinted without disturbing me. My skull was bruised, too, and I did not feel really well when Shorty lifted me up to give me coffee.