"Badly hurt," said Emett, "probably back broken. I have seen it before from just such accidents."
"Oh no!" cried Jones, and I felt so deeply I could not speak. Jim, who always wanted Navvy to be a dead Indian, looked profoundly sorry.
"He's a dead Indian, all right," replied Emett.
We rose from our stooping postures and stood around, uncertain and deeply grieved, until a mournful groan from Navvy afforded us much relief.
"That's your dead Indian," exclaimed Jones.
Emett stooped again and felt the Indian's back and got in reward another mournful groan.
"It's his back," said Emett, and true to his ruling passion, forever to minister to the needs of horses, men, and things, he began to rub the Indian and call for the liniment.
