"Water," he muttered, faintly, "water."
In a corner stood a bucket and a tin dipper. Loudon scooped up a dipperful and held it to the man's lips. He drank chokingly, and half the water spilled out on his shirt.
"Stranger," muttered the wounded man, "I'm goin' away from here in a hurry. Pull off my boots, will yuh?"
Loudon complied with the request. The removal of the boots must have cruelly hurt the wounded legs, but the man did not even groan.
"That's better," muttered the man, when the boots were off. "I was hopin' I wouldn't have to cash with 'em on. Who's yore friend?"
Loudon whirled, for his nerves were on edge, and Laguerre, who had entered without a sound, only saved himself from death by a cat-like leap to one side. As it was, Loudon's bullet missed him by the veriest fraction of an inch. Loudon shamefacedly holstered his weapon.
"My fault," said Laguerre, calmly. "Nex' time eet ees bes' I speak firs', yes. Who ees de man?"
"I dunno. Who are yuh, stranger?"
"Did yuh kill him?" queried the stranger, his eyes beginning to film over.
"No, he's a friend, too. Can't yuh tell yore name?"