“I don’t know how bad it is. It is here somewhere,” the man said, placing his hand on his breast, as if not certain of the exact spot. “It feels numb-like,” he added. Stooping down, Crandall unbuckled and took off the man’s pistol-belt and threw it into the snow, where lay his rifle, and then he tore open the man’s shirt. As he did so his fingers came in contact with the warm blood, and he involuntarily drew back, with a feeling of disgust.
“Did you find it?” asked the man, who was watching him closely, and who had observed the movement.
Recalled to himself by the question, Crandall again tore at the shirt, exposing the breast. Where the blood did not cover it, it looked like marble, despite the dark hair on it. He could not see the wound, on account of the blood, until he had wiped the latter from the breast, and then he found it.
“What do you think of it?” the man asked.
“There it is,” replied Crandall. He could not say more. The appealing tone in the man’s voice for some hope—some encouragement—made him feel faint and sick.
“What do you think of it?” the man repeated, in a querulous voice, and, as he did so, he coughed until his mouth filled with blood, and he spat it out on the white snow.
Crandall shook his head and walked toward where his horse was tied. He felt that if he watched the wounded man any longer he would faint. Noticing his walking away, the wounded man said: “For God’s sake, don’t leave me. Now that you have killed me, stay with me, and don’t let me die like a dog.”
The voice was one of entreaty, and Crandall returned and seated himself in the snow by the man’s side. The sun had gone down, and the twilight had come on, bringing with it the chill of night. Crandall covered the wounded man’s body with his overcoat, and raised his head from the snow. Almost unconsciously he noted that as the patch of red made by the blood grew larger and larger, the face of the wounded man grew whiter and whiter. He never took his eyes from Crandall’s face, while his breath came quicker and shorter, as if he breathed with labor. With each breath the blood seemed to bubble from the wound in the breast. One of the man’s hands fell from under the coat that covered him. As Crandall raised it from the snow, its coldness sent a chill through him. Once he had asked the wounded man if he could do anything for him; but the man had only shaken his head in reply. Crandall felt like reviling himself for what he had done, and wondered why the wounded man did not reproach him. Even when he expressed his sorrow at having shot him, the dying man had said, gently: “Don’t mind it. It’s too late now.”
The twilight gave way to darkness, and still he sat there. He could not hear the dying man breathe without leaning over his face. He did not do this but once, though, and then the dying man had opened his eyes and looked up into his face, inquiringly. Crandall would rather have stayed there until morning than to have caught that look again.
Suddenly he heard a voice call to him. He started as if he had been fired at, but it was only Lansing. As he answered the call, Lansing rode forward and, seeing the outstretched form on the snow, said: “By God, you got him!”