"Who is he?" asked the Kid as he bent over. "Little feller, ain't he?"
"Recognize him, Dick?" Bud said, kneeling down by the man's side and dipping one end of the shirt in his basin.
"No, can't say that I—yes I do, too! It's the fellow that was here when we came—the one who offered us the thousand! It's 'J. D.'!"
"Right. We found him lying over by a shack, dead to the world. Billee and I carried him in here. Seems to have a nasty cut, but I don't believe it's dangerous. Way he talked to me here awhile ago, he's too ornery to die."
"Must have been caught in the big wind," Nort said. "Hit by a board, probably."
"So that's Delton, hey?" Yellin' Kid drawled. "Well, mister, I'm pleased to make your acquaintance. You don't look pertikerly dangerous to me. But you can't tell about these quiet ones. Liable to fly up any minute. Don't wash that blood off, Bud! Leave it lay. Have him bleedin' again if you don't watch out. Nort, mosey out an' see if that dumb Mex has got the coffee ready. Bring in some, will you? Leave the 'Canned cow' out of it. When this boy wakes up he wants something strong."
The man's eyes opened for a minute, then closed again. The dusk outside was settling rapidly now, and the room was growing darker. Dick ran to the kitchen and returned with a lighted candle, which he held close to the head of the recumbent figure. By this time their visitor had regained consciousness, and was staring wide-eyed at the group surrounding the couch—three men leaning expectantly over his body, while a fourth held a lighted candle aloft like a weird statue. Little wonder that a man awaking to such surroundings would be somewhat bewildered.
"How do you feel, mister?" Yellin' Kid asked solicitously when he saw that Delton was conscious.
"Not so—good," was the jerky answer. "Stomach—sick—head feels—"
"Swally this," urged Billee holding to his lips the steaming coffee Nort had brought from the kitchen. "Sure it's hot! Don't want cold sody, do ya? 'At's-a-boy—drink 'er down! Better now?"