Wounds of this sort are generally fatal, and the boys had experience enough in such matters to know it.  In an instant the men who had been calmly viewing a life-and-death conflict bestirred themselves to help the sufferer.  Pentecost passed the bottle of brandy over the counter; half a dozen men ran to the spring for cold water; others hastily tore off coats, and even shirts, with which to soften a bench for the wounded man.  No one went for the Doctor, for that worthy had been viewing the fight professionally from the first, and had knelt beside the wounded man at exactly the right moment.  After a brief examination, he gave his opinion in the following professional style: 

“No go, Billy; you’re done for.”

“Good God!” exclaimed the Judge, who had watched the Doctor with breathless interest; “ain’t ther’ no chance?”

“Nary,” replied the Doctor, decidedly.

“I’m a ruined man—­I’m a used-up cuss,” said the Judge, with a look of bitter anguish.  “I wish I’d gone under, too.”

“Easy, old hoss,” suggested one of the boys; “you didn’t do him, yer know.”

“That’s what’s the matter!” roared the Judge, savagely; “nobody’ll ever know which of us whipped.”

And the Judge sorrowfully took himself off, declining most resolutely to drink.

Many hearts were full of sympathy for the Judge; but the poor fellow on the bench seemed to need most just then.  He had asked for some one who could write, and was dictating, in whispers, a letter to some person.  Then he drank some brandy, and then some water; then he freely acquitted the Judge of having ever fought any way but fairly.  But still his mind seemed burdened.  Finally, in a very thin, weak voice, he stammered out: 

“I don’t want—­to make—­to make it uncomfortable—­for—­for any of—­you fellers, but—­is ther’ a—­a preacher in the camp?”

The boys looked at each other inquiringly; men from every calling used to go to the mines, and no one would have been surprised if a backsliding priest, or even bishop, had stepped to the front.  But none appeared, and the wounded man, after looking despairingly from one to another, gave a smothered cry.

“Oh, God, hez a miserable wretch got to cut hisself open, and then flicker out, without anybody to say a prayer for him?”

The boys looked sorrowful—­if gold-dust could have bought prayers, Billy would have had a first-class assortment in an instant.

“There’s Deacon Adams over to Pattin’s,” suggested a bystander; “an’ they do say he’s a reg’lar rip-roarer at prayin’!  But ’twould take four hours to go and fetch him.”

“Too long,” said the Doctor.

“Down in Mexico, at the cathedral,” said another, “they pray for a feller after he’s dead, when yer pay ’em fur it, an’ they say it’s jist the thing—­sure pop.  I’ll give yer my word, Billy, an’ no go back, that I’ll see the job done up in style fur yer, ef that’s any comfort.”