“You’re—Jorth’s—girl,” he said, in faint voice of surprise.
“Yes, I’m Ellen Jorth,” she replied. “An’ are y’u Bill Isbel?”
“All thet’s left of me. But I’m thankin’ God somebody come—even a Jorth.”
Ellen knelt beside him and examined the wound in his abdomen. A heavy bullet had indeed, as Colter had avowed, torn clear through his middle. Even if he had not sustained other serious injury from the fall over the cliff, that terrible bullet wound meant death very shortly. Ellen shuddered. How inexplicable were men! How cruel, bloody, mindless!
“Isbel, I’m sorry—there’s no hope,” she said, low voiced. “Y’u’ve not long to live. I cain’t help y’u. God knows I’d do so if I could.”
“All over!” he sighed, with his eyes looking beyond her. “I reckon—I’m glad.... But y’u can—do somethin’ for or me. Will y’u?”
“Indeed, Yes. Tell me,” she replied, lifting his dusty head on her knee. Her hands trembled as she brushed his wet hair back from his clammy brow.
“I’ve somethin’—on my conscience,” he whispered.
The woman, the sensitive in Ellen, understood and pitied him then.
“Yes,” she encouraged him.