Williams examined the prostrate man. "Kind of low down, and in the side.
'T ain't bad, but it's bad enough. Got any whiskey?"
"You bet! I got a pocket-gun here. Swiped it in the saloon." And Pars
Long handed a flask to Williams.
The riders, standing round the fallen man, watched Williams as he bound
up the wound, which was bleeding slowly. The whiskey partially revived
Overland. He managed finally to cling to the saddle, supported by
Williams.
"She's thirty hot miles to camp. Red won't last out," said Long.
"I say he does," said Bud Light. "Did you see them puckers in his hide?
I counted seven. He ain't made to be stopped by a gun."
"Mebby he ain't stopped, but he's slowed up considerable. Did you see
the two guys he got? Saunders was pretty nigh cut in two and the other
one by the bar had four holes in him. I counted 'em, to quit thinkin' of
my arm. Them automatics is fierce!"
"He would never 'a' got out if he'd been packin' a regular old six-gun,"
said Bud Light. "_Both_ them guys were throwin' lead at him."
"How do you know? You wasn't there."
"Easy. He went in to get Saunders. He gets him. The other one takes a
hand. He got _him_. _We_ didn't do any shootin' inside.
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