“What in the devil was you tryin’ to do?” demanded Roaring.
“Turny-keet,” wailed Horse-Collar. “Look at his head, you big bully! He’s bleedin’ to death.”
“Firs’ aid for the injured,” grunted Lovely. “Look at him kick.”
Hashknife flopped down in the old swivel chair and shook with laughter, while Horse-Collar and Lovely looked at him in amazement. Roaring didn’t see the humor of the situation. He wiped some of the blood off Wind River’s face and head; enough to discover that the bullet had merely cut a furrow, knocking Wind River cold.
“You can’t stop bleedin’ thataway,” he told Horse-Collar.
“The devil you can’t! I did, the time I got shot in the leg. Saved in’ life, too, y’betcha.”
“Who shot ’in?” demanded Lovely. “That’s what I’d crave to know—who shot ’in?”
“That long legged geezer,” said Horse Collar, pointing at Hashknife. “Shot ’im and then run. He’s dangerous, I tell you. Didn’t he shoot at me awhile ago? Put ’m in jail, Roarin’.”
“Drunk and crazy!” snorted Roaring. “Take a look at this wound, will you, Hashknife? If you figger it’s bad enough, I’ll send out to Conley’s place for the doctor.”
Hashknife examined it closely and decided that Wind River would be all right in a few minutes.