“Thet was about where Greaser cashed,” relied Bill, coolly knocking the ashes from his pipe.
“No, Bill, you're wrong. Here comes Greaser, runnin' like an Indian.”
“Look at the blood! He's been plugged, all right!” exclaimed Herky-Jerky.
The sound of running feet drew nearer, and suddenly the group at the door broke to admit the Mexican. One side of his terrified face was covered with blood. His eyes were staring, his hands raised, he staggered as if about to fall.
“Senyor William! Senyor William!” he cried, and then called on Saint Somebody.
“Jim Williams! I said so,” muttered Bud.
Bill caught hold of the excited Mexican, and pulled him nearer the light.
“Thet ain't a bad hurt. Jest cut his ear off!” aid Bill. “Hyar, stand still, you wild man! you're not goin' to die. Git some water, Herky. Fellers, Greaser has been oneasy ever since he knew Jim Williams was lookin' fer him. He thinks Jim did this. But Jim Williams don't use a rifle, an', what's more, when he shoots he don't miss. You all heerd the rifle-shot.”
“Then it was old Bent or Leslie?” questioned Buell.
“Leslie it were. Bent uses a 45-90 caliber. Thet shot we heerd was from the little 38—the kid's gun.”