It had fell out when
he tumbled. I picked it up in the road jest a few
feet from his shot-gun, and stood there with it in
my hand, looking down at him.
"Well," he says, in a drawly kind of voice,
slow and feeble, but looking at me steady and
trying to raise himself agin, "yo' can finish yo'
little job now--yo' shot me from the darkness,
and now yo' done got my pistol. I reckon yo'
better shoot AGIN."
"I don't want to rub it in none," I says, "with
you down and out, but from what I seen around
this town to-night I guess you and your own gang
got no GREAT objections to shooting from the dark
yourselves."
"Why don't yo' shoot then?" he says. "It
most suttinly is YO' turn now." And he never
batted an eye.
"Bo," I says, "you got nerve. I LIKE you, Bo.
I didn't shoot you, and I ain't going to. The feller
that did has went. I'm going to get you out of
this. Where you hurt?"
"Hip," he says, "but that ain't much. The thing
that bothers me is this arm. It's done busted. I
fell on it."
I drug him out of the road and back of the lumber
pile I had been laying on, and hurt him considerable
a-doing it.
"Now," I says, "what can I do fur you?"
"I reckon yo' better leave me," he says, "without
yo' want to get yo'self mixed up in all this."
"If I do," I says, "you may bleed to death here:
or anyway you would get found in the morning
and be run in.
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