Battered, bloody, and torn he lay,
his handsome features swollen and disfigured, his clothes dusty and
dishevelled, while above him and around him men stooped and peered and
whispered.
"Why, it's--it's--Bud!" stammered Spike, shrinking away from that
inanimate form, "my God! It's--Bud!"
"'S right, Kid!" nodded Soapy imperturbably, hands in pockets and,
though his voice sounded listless as ever, his eyes gleamed evilly,
and the dangling cigarette quivered and stirred.
"Ain't--dead, is he?" some one questioned.
"Dead--not much!" answered Soapy, "guess it's goin' to take more 'n that
t' make Bud a stiff 'un. Besides, Bud ain't goin' t' die that way, no,
not--that way, I reckon. Dead? Watch this!" So saying, he reached
Spike's half-emptied glass from the bar and, not troubling to stoop,
poured the raw spirit down upon M'Ginnis's pale, blood-smirched face.
"Dead?" said Soapy. "Well, I guess not--look at him!"
And, sure enough, M'Ginnis stirred, groaned, opened swollen eyelids and,
aided by some ready arm, sat up feebly.
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