Skeeter dug into Kales’ pockets and secured matches, which he proceeded to light in order to examine Kales’ hurts.
“He sure got plugged,” nodded Skeeter. “I dunno how many times he got hit, but it looks like his gun busted and tore his right hand all to thunder. Hm-m-m!”
“Almost got enough to start a hospital,” observed Mrs. Porter.
Skeeter was searching Kales’ pockets again. In the outside pocket of the slicker he found a full bottle of whisky. He drew out the cork and forced some of it into the outlaw’s mouth. Kales strangled and tried to sit up.
“Here, take a drink,” urged Skeeter, and succeeded in getting a fair-sized drink down Kales’ throat.
“Feel better?”
Kales coughed and tried to get to his feet. “Hang on to yourself,” advised Skeeter. “Take it easy until yuh feel better.”
But Kales got to his feet and clung to Skeeter, talking incoherently.
“Can yuh walk?” asked Skeeter.
“Walk?” muttered Kales. “Walk?”