The yellow streak in Gurley was to the fore all day. It evidenced itself in his precipitate retreat from the field of battle—a flight which carried him miles across the desert before he dared wait for his comrades. It showed again in the proposal which he made early in the afternoon to Dinsmore.
The trio of outlaws had been moving very slowly on account of the suffering of the wounded man. Gurley kept looking back nervously every few minutes to see if pursuers were visible. After a time he sidled up to Dinsmore and spoke low.
"They'll get us sure if we don't move livelier, Homer."
"How in Mexico can we move faster when Dave can't stand it?" asked Dinsmore impatiently.
"He's a mighty sick man. He hadn't ought to be on horseback at all. He needs a doctor."
"Will you go an' get him one?" demanded Homer with sour sarcasm.
"What I say is, let's fix him up comfortable, an' after a while mebbe a posse will come along an' pick him up. They can look after him better than we got a chance to do," argued Gurley.
"And mebbe a posse won't find him—what then?" rasped Dinsmore.
"They will. If they don't, he'll die easy. This is sure enough hell for him now."
"All right. Shall we stop right here with him?"