The boy stirred and brought his bare arm from under the blanket. "Ax slipped and cut me, and the thing's got infected," he said. "I've been in agony for two days."
"I should think so!" exclaimed Dexter. The forearm was darkly inflamed, swollen to twice its normal dimensions, and reddish purple streaks had begun to creep upward to the shoulder joint. "You've neglected this for two days?"
"I didn't know what to do with it."
"Then you've no business in this country." Dexter regarded the young man curiously. "These little accidents are always apt to occur, and unless you've got the nerve and sense to do your own surgery, you'd better stay where hospitals are handy."
He turned his back for a moment and put away his pistol. Then, unobserved, he drew a small, thin bladed knife from his pocket. "Here!" he said. "Let's see that."
Gripping the injured arm firmly, he leaned forward and found the seat of the wound. Then, with merciful swiftness, before the other could guess his purpose, he slashed with his sharp blade, cutting deep into the throbbing flesh. The boy jerked away, screaming in sudden anguish.
"Oh, you—what have you done?" he moaned.
"In town they'd have given you an anæsthetic," remarked the officer. "Here we've got to take what comes, and bear it. You should have done that for yourself yesterday."
The stranger groaned feebly, and hugged his wrist, and for the moment, evidently, speech was beyond him.
"All we need now is hot water, and plenty of antiseptics," said Dexter. "We can do."