Tenderly the cowpuncher took the poor boy in his arms, whilst Loyola, with big tears in her eyes, sprinkled water over the pale, drawn little face, saying over and over again to herself,
"Poor Jim! poor little Jim!"
"What's up?" asked the blind man.
"Jim's strength has quit him, an' he's vamoosed into a faint," replied the cowboy.
"Why, what's this?" cried the girl, in consternation. "Look at his shirt; it's all soaked with blood."
"Blast me if the youngster ain't been wounded all this time," exclaimed Bill.
"An' never tole no one! He's clean-strain, is Jim," muttered Broncho hoarsely, as Loyola tenderly bathed the place and pulled away the blood-stained shirt from the wound.
"Where's he hit?" came the strained, husky voice of the blind man again.
"Bullet's glanced off 'is ribs an' made a nawsty gash," said Bill.
"The son of a gun! the son of a gun! An' he never tole no one!" repeated Broncho softly.