A man lay facing him, curled up on the deck, his hair, matted with blood, hanging over eyes that were burning with fever.

He made no attempt to rise, apparently was unable to move, and a dark, bloody stain covered the deck.

West sprang forward, and lifted the head on his arm.
"You are hurt--badly ?" he exclaimed.

"What can I do for you ?" "Nuthin', I reckon," still in that same strained whisper.

"I'm done for; no doubt of it.