“Pardner,” said Skeeter distinctly, “I’ve got yore legs in trouble. ’F yuh don’t toss yore gun over toward me, I’m shore goin’ t’ interest yuh in a pair of crutches.”
The legs remained motionless, but from their owner came another wheezing cough. In fact, the man coughed for quite a while, and the visible legs shook weakly at the finish.
“Now, throw over the gun,” ordered Skeeter, and a moment later a Winchester rifle crashed into the brush and hung up in view of Skeeter.
“C’m on out, pardner,” said Skeeter. “Walk right down past where the rifle hangs, and I’ll kinda look yuh over.”
The man was coming down through the brush before Skeeter had finished, and broke his way out into the open a moment later.
“Keep yore hands above yore waist,” ordered Skeeter meaningly, “while I look yuh over.”
The man was possibly not more than thirty years of age, yet looked much older. A stubbly beard covered the lower part of his face, and a pair of weary-looking eyes seemed to consider Skeeter closely.
The man was not evil-looking, in spite of his unkempt appearance. His torn shirt was clean, as were the worn overalls. He coughed softly again, and a flush crept across his thin cheeks.
“Shucks!” muttered Skeeter softly. “Whatcha tryin’ t’ kill me for, pardner?”
The man shook his head slowly, wearily.