“Get some water and wash his head,” suggested Hashknife.
As Roaring started for the rear of the office, Slim Regan stepped into the office. Slim was panting from running, and he ignored the sight of Wind River Jim on the floor.
“Hartley,” he panted. “Your pardner got hurt. They’ve got him in the Black Horse Saloon; you better come.”
Hashknife was past Regan before the Big 4 foreman finished speaking. He ran heavily up the street and crossed to the saloon. The crowd parted to let him in. They had placed Sleepy on the floor near the center of the room, and the yellow light from the center lamp illuminated his white face. Hashknife dropped to his knees beside him, putting a hand on his shoulder.
“Sleepy, do you know me?” he asked.
But Sleepy did not speak. He was breathing heavily. Hashknife could see the blood oozing through Sleepy’s shirt. He had been shot through the body on the right side, about two inches above his waist-line.
“I sent Hank Pitts for the doctor,” said Slim.
Hashknife looked up at Regan, his face twisted with pain.
“Thank you, Slim. Does anybody know how it happened?”
Slim shook his head.