"Here goes!" Pringle pitched the rifle over. A moment later he
staggered out between the rocks, bearing Foy's heavy weight in his
arms. The head hung helpless, blood-spattered; the body was limp and
slack; the legs dragged sprawling; the dreaded hands were bound.

Pringle laid his burden on the grass.

"Here he is, you hyenas! His hands are tied--are you still afraid of
him? Damn you! The man's bleeding to death!"




Chapter VI


"You treacherous, dirty hound!" said Breslin.

"Of all the low-down skunks I ever seen, you sure are the skunkiest!"
said Nueces. "The sheriff was right after all. Cur-dog fits you to a
T." He finished washing out the cut on Foy's head as he spoke. "Now
the bandages, Anastacio. We'll have the blood stopped in a jiffy.
Funny he hasn't come to. It's been a long while. It ain't the head
ails him. This isn't such a deep cut; it oughtn't to put him out. Just
happened to strike a vein." He bound up the cut with the deftness of
experience.

"I hit him under the jaw," observed Pringle. "That's what did the
business for him. He'll be around directly."