The giant plucked him out of the saddle and placed him on the ground, but his legs buckled under him, and he fell forward on his face.  Any of the three could have saved him, but the spectacle of the terrible old man’s helplessness benumbed their senses and their muscles.

“Carry me in!” said Bill at last.

Bull lifted him and bore him gingerly through the door and placed him on the bunk.  The light revealed a grisly spectacle.  Crimson stains and dirt literally covered him; his left leg was bandaged below the knee; his right shoulder was roughly splinted with small twigs and swathed in cloth.

The long ride, with his legs tied in place, had apparently paralyzed his nerves below the hips.  He remained crushed against the wall, his legs falling in the odd position in which they were put down by Bull.  It was illustrative of his character that, even in this crisis, not one of the three dared venture an expression of sympathy, a question, a suggestion.

Crumpled against the wall, his head bowed forward and cramped, the stern old man still controlled them with the upward glance of his eyes through the shag of eyebrows.

“Gimme my pipe,” he commanded.

Three hands reached for it—­pipe, tobacco, matches were proffered to him.  Before he accepted the articles he swept their faces with a glance of satisfaction.  Without attempting to change the position which must have been torturing him, he filled the pipe bowl, his fingers moving as if he had partially lost control of them.  He filled it raggedly, shreds of tobacco hanging down around the bowl.  He bent his head to meet the left hand which he raised with difficulty, then he tried to light a match.  But he seemed incapable of moving the sulphur head fast enough to bring it to a light with friction.  Match after match crumbled as he continued his efforts.

“Here, lemme light a match for you, Dad!”

Harry’s offer was received with a silent curling of the lips and a glint of the yellow teeth beneath that made him step back.  The old man continued his work.  There were a dozen wrecked matches before the blood began to stir in his numbed arm and he was able to light the match and the pipe.  He drew several breaths of the smoke deep into his lungs.  For the moment the savage, hungry satisfaction changed his face; they could tell by that alteration what agonies he had been suffering before.

Presently he frowned and set about changing his position with infinite labor.  The left leg was helpless, and so was the right arm.  Yet, after much labor, he managed to stuff a roll of the blankets into the corner and then shift himself until his back rested against this support.  But his strength deserted him again.  His pipe was dropped down in the left hand, his head sagged back.

Still they dared not approach him.  His two sons stood about, shifting from one foot to another, as if they expected a blow to descend upon them at any moment, as if each labored movement of terrible old Bill Campbell caused them the agony which he must be suffering.