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he cried out. I tore away the bandages and exposed the
bullet-torn flesh just above his knee.
Jagged pieces of ivory-colored bone stuck out from the
hole the Apache’s bullet had made. Dirt and ash had found
their way into the wound. Raw flesh seeped blood, and deep
red marks streaked beneath his skin. June turned away and
covered her mouth. Waves of sickness inched up my throat.
“How bad is it?” Pope croaked.
I stared down at the gore. It seemed that only scraps of
skin and some sliver of bone held the lower leg to his thigh.
Infection would set in by morning if it hadn’t already. “It’s
not good.”
Pope heaved himself onto his elbows. Sweat beaded on
his forehead. “Cut . . . it . . . off, Kepler.”

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