words.

"Well--I guess they got me, all right. But don't let that worry
yuh; it don't me." He tried to speak carelessly and
convincingly, but it was a miserable failure. He did not want
to die, did Bob, however much he might try to hide the fact.

Thurston was not in the least imposed upon. He turned away his
head, pretending to look after the outlaws, and set his teeth
together tight. He did not want to act a fool. All at once he
grew dizzy and sick, and lay down heavily till the faintness
passed.

Bob tried to lift himself to his elbow; failing that, he put out
a hand and laid it on Thurston's shoulder. "Did they-- get you-
-too?" he queried anxiously.

"The damn coyotes!"

"It's nothing; just a leg put out of business," Thurston hurried
to assure him. "Where are you hurt, Bob?"

"Aw, I ain't any X-ray," Bob retorted weakly but gamely.
"Somewheres inside uh me. It went in my side but the Lord knows
where it wound up. It hurts, like the devil." He lay quiet a
minute. "I wish--do yuh feel--like finishing-- that song, Bud?"

Thurston gulped down a lump that was making his throat ache.
When he answered, his voice was very gentle: