A sharp curve leads to the entrance of Rock Cut. Running easily, Banneker had reached the beginning of the turn, when he became aware of a lumbering figure approaching him at a high and wild sort of half-gallop. The man’s face was a welter of blood. One hand was pressed to it. The other swung crazily as he ran. He would have swept past Banneker unregarding had not the agent caught him by the shoulder.
“Where are you hurt?”
The runner stared wildly at the young man. “I’ll soom,” he mumbled breathlessly, his hand still crumpled against the dreadfully smeared face. “Dammum, I’ll soom.”
He removed his hand from his mouth, and the red drops splattered and were lost upon the glittering, thirsty sand. Banneker wiped the man’s face, and found no injury. But the fingers which he had crammed into his mouth were bleeding profusely.
“They oughta be prosecuted,” moaned the sufferer. “I’ll soom. For ten thousan’ dollars. M’hand is smashed. Looka that! Smashed like a bug.”
Banneker caught the hand and expertly bound it, taking the man’s name and address as he worked.
“Is it a bad wreck?” he asked.
“It’s hell. Look at m’hand! But I’ll soom, all right. I’ll show’m ... Oh! ... Cars are afire, too ... Oh-h-h! Where’s a hospital?”
He cursed weakly as Banneker, without answering, re-stowed his packet and ran on.
A thin wisp of smoke rising above the nearer wall of rocks made the agent set his teeth. Throughout his course the voice of the engine had, as it were, yapped at his hurrying heels, but now it was silent, and he could hear a murmur of voices and an occasional shouted order. He came into sight of the accident, to face a bewildering scene.