In the meantime he had stanched the flow of blood in the fleshy part of his leg, binding the limb tightly with a piece of rope.

It was an ugly, glancing cut made by a bullet of large calibre, and it was sure to put him on crutches for some time to come.

Even now he was scarcely able to move the member.

For an hour he had been venting his wrath upon the sluggish Anderson Crow, who should have been on the scene long before this.

Two of his captives, now fully conscious, were glaring at their companions in the tent with hate in their eyes.
Rosalie Gray, wan, dishevelled, but more beautiful than the reports had foretold, could not at first believe herself to be free from the clutches of the bandits.