Sitting up after being startled out of sleep the rifle man looked around, scanning the surrounding landscape with blurry eyes until the scenery became crystal clear. Eyes long trained to spot anything out of the ordinary found that the drought ravaged woodlands retained their natural state. The only disturbance was the trail he left of broken twigs and sticks, and the sliding marks every other step.
He wished for not the first, and not the last time that the wound was a slice or a bite or anything except for the blow that had made lifting his left leg close to physically imposible. At least a slice or a bite was a surface wound, and usually easier to treat, the rifle man had dealt with plenty of those in his time. The blow from the hammer, a big sledge hammer being swung by a big man, had not only slammed him to the ground and knocked his breath out of his lungs, but it also had made his left leg go numb for an hour or two, then when feeling returned to it, he found that it was throbbing and burning. Swelling had begun around his hip and knee. The swelling didn't last long though, but the pain grew, and he still couldn't move it easily, and he had to fully concentrate to get it going. That movement was something that required too much effort to keep going all day.
However, the days after he painfully went the way of the wind from the ancient, crumbling, and bairly populated settlement saw a little healing, but any healing done was torn down by his inexorable journey. He knew he should rest to let his body rebuild, but he also knew he didn't have that luxury.
(A sudden stroke of inspiration hit me, and I figured it would at least be something to do. I would have kept going on this specific part, but my kindle needs to charge.)