It was now only a few weeks to Christmas. Refolding the newspaper to leave no indication it had been opened, I returned everything to the saddlebags. I took his rifle from its scabbard and went back into the house. Morrell had been stripped to the waist and the blood washed away. The bullet went through, Sampson said, but he's lost a lot of blood and he's in bad shape. He glanced at the saddlebags. Is there a razor in there? Before I realized it, I said, No ... no razor. There's something wrong here, Sampson said. No bed on the horse, and this man shaved not later than yesterday. That means he must have camped somewhere within a day's ride. Morrell stirred, the first movement I'd seen him make. He stirred and muttered something. I'll make some soup, John said, and some coffee. He indicated the table. I found that, too. It was a derringer, .44 caliber. A sleeve gun with a band to fasten it to the wrist. The draw from the sleeve was one of the fastest and was fancied by gambling men. I hung my coat over a chair and when I turned back to the wounded man his eyes were open and he was looking at me.
