“They killed that poor devil,” replied Sleepy angrily. “He never tried to pull a gun, Hashknife.”
Sleepy stepped outside, gun in hand, but the men had disappeared. The driver was starting to get down.
“Held up, I’m a son of a gun!” he snorted, as he almost fell off the hub.
Sleepy knelt down and examined the stranger. He was breathing heavily, painfully, and was unconscious.
“Well, he ain’t dead,” declared Sleepy. “How far is it to town, driver?”
“’Bout five-six mile. I’m never held up before, I’m a son of a gun!”
“Put him in here,” ordered Hashknife.
Sleepy and the driver lifted the wounded man inside and eased him into a seat. He was as limp as a rag, so Sleepy sat beside him, holding him upright.
“Drive as fast as yuh can,” ordered Hashknife. “This man needs a doctor right now.”
“You bet you,” agreed the driver. “I’ll go like hell.”