“Mebbe. Huh!”
Uncle Hozie lifted in his stirrups and looked down the road.
“What’s this we’re comin’ to, Lonnie?”
It was Joe Rich, dismounted, standing in the middle of the road. Standing against the brush on the river side of the road was Jim Wheeler’s horse, and Jim Wheeler was in a huddled heap in the middle of the road.
Uncle Hozie and Lonnie dismounted quickly and went over to him. His right leg was twisted in a peculiar position and his head had been badly beaten. Uncle Hozie dropped to his knees and examined him as quickly as possible.
“Joe, for God’s sake, what happened to Jim?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” said Joe dully. “He—his foot was caught in the stirrup, Hozie. The horse dragged him. I just found him a minute ago. Yuh can see his—his leg’s broke.”
Joe pointed up the dusty road toward town.
“Yuh can see where the horse dragged him.”
The trail through the dust was plainly visible, and the condition of Jim’s clothes showed what had happened.