"It's full," he said, with a sickly smile. "I reckon I _have_ lost
some blood. Why--why, I didn't feel it."

Martin Worthy, the storekeeper, ran across from the jail ahead of the
others. Hearing Westerfelt's remark, he cried:

"My Lord! you must go inside an' lie down; fix a place, Miss Harriet,
an' send fer a doctor, quick!"

Harriet ran into the house, and Mrs. Floyd and Worthy supported
Westerfelt between them into a room adjoining the parlor. They made
him lie on a bed, and Worthy opened his waistcoat and shirt.

"Good gracious, it's runnin' like a wet-weather spring," he said.
"Have you sent fer a doctor?" he asked as Harriet came in.

"Yes; Dr. Lash, but he may not be at his office."

"Send for Dr. Wells," he ordered a man at the door. "That's right," he
added to Harriet, who had knelt by the bed and was holding the lips of
the wound together, "keep the cut closed as well as you kin! I'll go
tell 'im to use my hoss."

As he went out there was a clatter of feet on the veranda. The people
were returning from the jail. Westerfelt opened his eyes and looked
towards the door.

"They'll crowd in here," said Harriet to her mother. "Shut the door;
don't let anybody in except Mr. Bradley."