"Take care of them, Jamieson," said
Dunwody shortly. He himself leaned against the rail.
"You're hurt yourself, Dunwody," exclaimed Jamieson, the blood
dripping from his fingers when he half rose. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing--I got a nick in my leg, I think, but I'm all right. See
to the others."
Jamieson bent over the body of young Desha, who had been first to
suffer here on the debated ground of Missouri. He had been shot
through the upper body and had died with little suffering. Of the
assailing party two others also were beyond aid, one a young
planter who had joined the party some miles back beyond St.
Genevieve, the other a sallow example of the "poor white trash" who
made a certain part of the population of the lower country. Of
these both were shot through the head, and death did not at once
relieve them. They both lay groaning dully. Jamieson passed them
swiftly by. The tally showed that of the Missourians three had
been killed, four badly wounded, besides the slight wound of
Dunwody and that of a planter by the name of Sanders, who had been
shot through the arm.
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