“More ’n once, too,” declared Hashknife, “or he’s smeared himself with the blood.”
They took the man off his horse and laid him beside the road. His flannel shirt was soaked with blood, and an examination showed that the man had been shot twice. One bullet had struck him high up in the left shoulder, while the other had torn its way through his body on the right side, about midway between shoulder and waist.
He was unconscious from loss of blood and his breath came jerkily.
“There ain’t a danged thing we can do for him,” said Hashknife, getting to his feet. “Looks to me like he’d been hit with a thirty-thirty.”
Sleepy nodded as he looked up from an examination of the man’s face.
“Betcha forty dollars that this here is Quinin Quinn. Didja ever see such a sour face in your life?”
“’F you got two thirty-thirties through your carcass, I reckon you’d kinda sour, too,” retorted Hashknife. “’F we knowed where the Tombstone Ranch was, we’d take him there.”
“Must be between here and Caldwell. This feller likely headed f’r home and missed the gate. If we don’t find the ranch, I reckon we can find the town.”
“And that,” said Sleepy, as they draped the man over his saddle, “is the first danged thing I ever suggested that you didn’t argue about, Hashknife.”
“First time you ever spoke sense, Sleepy.”