But on their nearer approach he rose to his feet and started to run.

A shot over his head, a sharp command, and he halted and was surrounded by the vigilantes, but not before he had slily dropped some object in the grass.

One of the men dismounted and struck a match.
"Why, it's Henry Dorgan!" exclaimed Mart Cooley.
Dorgan appeared to be greatly flustered and in pain.

His left arm was helpless from a wound in the shoulder, and from the fleshy part of it an arrow protruded.

It probably had been less painful to leave it there than to pull it out.