"Wal, who 'n hell said I wasn't? Would you mind givin' me a
lift--on this here pack?"

Duane lifted the heavy pack down and then helped Stevens to
dismount. The outlaw had a bloody foam on his lips, and he was
spitting blood.

"Oh, why didn't you say so!" cried Duane. "I never thought. You
seemed all right."

"Wal, Luke Stevens may be as gabby as an old woman, but
sometimes he doesn't say anythin'. It wouldn't have done no
good."

Duane bade him sit down, removed his shirt, and washed the
blood from his breast and back. Stevens had been shot in the
breast, fairly low down, and the bullet had gone clear through
him. His ride, holding himself and that heavy pack in the
saddle, had been a feat little short of marvelous. Duane did
not see how it had been possible, and he felt no hope for the
outlaw. But he plugged the wounds and bound them tightly.

"Feller's name was Brown," Stevens said. "Me an' him fell out
over a hoss I stole from him over in Huntsville. We had a
shootin'-scrape then. Wal, as I was straddlin' my hoss back
there in Mercer I seen this Brown, an' seen him before he seen
me. Could have killed him, too. But I wasn't breakin' my word
to you. I kind of hoped he wouldn't spot me. But he did--an'
fust shot he got me here. What do you think of this hole?"