“Reckon I’m easier,” replied Jorth, wearily, “but shore I’m in bad shape. I’m still spittin’ blood. I keep tellin’ Queen that bullet lodged in my lungs—but he says it went through.”
“Wal, hang on, Tad!” replied Colter, with a cheerfulness Ellen sensed was really indifferent.
“Oh, what the hell’s the use!” exclaimed Jorth. “It’s all—up with us—Colter!”
“Wal, shut up, then,” tersely returned Colter. “It ain’t doin’ y’u or us any good to holler.”
Tad Jorth did not reply to this. Ellen heard his breathing and it did not seem natural. It rasped a little—came hurriedly—then caught in his throat. Then he spat. Ellen shrunk back against the door. He was breathing through blood.
“Uncle, are y’u in pain?” she asked.
“Yes, Ellen—it burns like hell,” he said.
“Oh! I’m sorry.... Isn’t there something I can do?”
“I reckon not. Queen did all anybody could do for me—now—unless it’s pray.”
Colter laughed at this—the slow, easy, drawling laugh of a Texan. But Ellen felt pity for this wounded uncle. She had always hated him. He had been a drunkard, a gambler, a waster of her father’s property; and now he was a rustler and a fugitive, lying in pain, perhaps mortally hurt.