“Never mind that now. The first thing is to make you comfortable. You are safe. Don’t forget that. Later we can talk. I have many questions to ask you, but the night is long.”
The slight frame shook.
“Something over six—maybe ten years. What year is this?...” His voice seemed to fail. He lay back, occasionally coughing, but for the most part silent.
A half hour dragged by. Roberts did nothing save inspect the wound he had made, and occasionally give a spoonful of stimulant to the prostrate man. The latter’s heart action was faint, but constant. Roberts knew he would live till morning, at least.
“I have talked to myself, to the lepers’ priests, to the sands—in English,” he said suddenly. “That’s why I remember. My name’s Bowen—Wade Hilton Bowen. Calligraphist for the Central Historical Society. My home was on Perry street, Montgomery, Alabama. A nice house, with barn for six horses. Box stalls ... I have said this many times....”
“Montgomery has changed since you were there,” put in Roberts quietly. “I’ll tell you more about it tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow ... tomorrow in hell!” he coughed, and then was silent again.
Roberts, bringing all his mental cohorts to bear upon the possible relation between this queer derelict of the desert and his two companions, made no attempt to string on the conversation.
One hour before dawn the man tried to sit up, strangled in a fit of terrible coughing, and then fell sidewise.
“Can’t—can’t lie on my back,” he gasped. “Spine bowed. Hurts. How—how long have I got?”