The dip was not more than an acre in extent.

Up to his knees in the hole was Billinger's riderless horse, and a little way up the sand was Billinger, doubled over on his hands and knees beside two black objects that Philip knew were men, stretched out like the dead back at the wreck.
Billinger's yellow-mustached face, pallid and twisted with pain, looked over them as Philip galloped across the open and sprang out of his saddle.

With a terrible grimace he raised himself to his knees, anticipating the question on Philip's lips.
"Nothing very bad, Steele," he said.

"One of the cusses pinked me through the leg, and broke it, I guess.

Painful, but not killing.