The wounded man turned. “My laig’s busted—two places. Plugged in the side too.”
Bob’s heart sank. The face into which he looked was that of Jake Houck. If he had only known in time! But it was too late now. He had to finish what he had begun. He could not leave the fellow lying there.
He crawled to Houck. The big man gave directions. “Better drag me, I reckon. Go as easy as you can on that busted laig.”
Dillon took him beneath the arms and hauled him through the sand. The wounded man set his teeth to keep back a groan. Very slowly and carefully, an inch here, a foot there, Bob worked Houck’s heavy body backward. It was a long business. A dozen times he stopped to select the next leg of the journey.
Beads of perspiration stood on Houck’s forehead. He was in great pain, but he clenched his teeth and said nothing. Bob could not deny him gameness. Not a sound escaped his lips. He clung to his rifle even though a free hand would greatly ease the jarring of the hurt leg.
Back of a scrub cottonwood Bob rested for a moment. “Not far now,” he said.
Houck’s eyes measured the distance to the willows. “No,” he agreed. “Not far.”
“Think maybe I could carry you,” Bob suggested. “Get you on my shoulder.”
“Might try,” the wounded man assented. “Laig hurts like sixty.”
Bob helped him to his feet and from there to his shoulder. He staggered over the rough ground to the willows. Into these he pushed, still carrying Houck. As gently as he could he lowered the big fellow.