"Yes; they've got me," the utterance of the words a struggle. "It's
here in the chest; I--I don't know how bad; perhaps if you tear open my
shirt, you--you might stop the blood."
She could see nothing, not even the man's face, yet her fingers rent
the shirt asunder and searched for the wound. It was not bleeding
greatly, and she had no water, but not knowing what else to do, she
tore a strip from her skirt and bound it hastily. He never moved, or
spoke, and she bent her head closer. The wounded man had lost
consciousness.
Alone, in the dark, she crept back on her knees to her place behind the
barricade. Her hand touched the empty gun he had dropped, and she
reloaded it slowly, only half comprehending its mechanism. The
revolver, every chamber filled, rested on the upturned edge of the bed;
her lips were firmly pressed together. Quietly she pushed forward the
barrel of the shotgun, and waited.
CHAPTER XXIX: A NEEDLE IN A HAYSTACK
The little marshal of Haskell had the reputation of being as quick of
wit as of trigger finger.
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