“Snake, old man, you ain't—hurt?” asked Wilson, with a tremor in his voice. Receiving no reply, he said to his comrades, “Lay hold an' we'll heft him up where we can see.”
The three men carefully lifted Anson up on the bank and laid him near the fire in the light. Anson was conscious. His face was ghastly. Blood showed on his lips.
Wilson knelt beside him. The other outlaws stood up, and with one dark gaze at one another damned Anson's chance of life. And on the instant rose that terrible distressing scream of acute agony—like that of a woman being dismembered. Shady Jones whispered something to Moze. Then they stood up, gazing down at their fallen leader.
“Tell me where you're hurt?” asked Wilson.
“He—smashed—my chest,” said Anson, in a broken, strangled whisper.
Wilson's deft hands opened the outlaw's shirt and felt of his chest.
“No. Shore your breast-bone ain't smashed,” replied Wilson, hopefully. And he began to run his hand around one side of Anson's body and then the other. Abruptly he stopped, averted his gaze, then slowly ran the hand all along that side. Anson's ribs had been broken and crushed in by the weight of the horse. He was bleeding at the mouth, and his slow, painful expulsions of breath brought a bloody froth, which showed that the broken bones had penetrated the lungs. An injury sooner or later fatal!
“Pard, you busted a rib or two,” said Wilson.
“Aw, Jim—it must be—wuss 'n thet!” he whispered. “I'm—in orful—pain. An' I can't—git any—breath.”
“Mebbe you'll be better,” said Wilson, with a cheerfulness his face belied.