Stevens had been shot in the breast, fairly low down, and the bullet had gone clear through him.

His ride, holding himself and that heavy pack in the saddle, had been a feat little short of marvelous.

Duane did not see how it had been possible, and he felt no hope for the outlaw.

But he plugged the wounds and bound them tightly.
"Feller's name was Brown," Stevens said.

"Me an' him fell out over a hoss I stole from him over in Huntsville.