Presently the deep, masculine voice he had heard outside talking with Nevada ceased, and a firm, measured tread was heard on the porch. A big man paused for a few seconds in the doorway and then came forward; a man as tall as Rawley, as broad of shoulder, as narrow hipped. He was dressed much as Rawley was dressed, except that his shirt was of cheaper, darker material and the breeches were earth-stained and old, as were his boots. He carried his head well up and looked down at Rawley calmly, appraisingly, with neither dislike nor favor in his face. He was smooth-shaven, and his jaw was square, his lips firm and somewhat bitter. Rawley rose and bowed and stood back from the bed.
“My niece has told me all about the shooting,” he said, moving toward the bed. “I’m not a doctor, but I’ve had some experience with wounds. In this country we have to learn to take care of ourselves. Is your partner unconscious?”
“Dopey, I’d say. I can rouse him, but it seemed best to let him be as quiet as possible. He had over an hour in the heat, and the joggling on the burro didn’t do him any good, I imagine.” Rawley hoped Uncle Peter would not think he was staring like an idiot, but he could not rid himself of the feeling that somewhere, some time, he had seen this man before.
Uncle Peter bent and examined the wound. When he moved Johnny Buffalo a bit, the Indian opened his eyes and stared hard into his face.
“My sergeant! I did not think to—”
“Out of his head,” Rawley muttered uneasily. “It’s the first symptom of it he’s shown.”
Johnny Buffalo muttered again, pressed his lips together and closed his eyes. After that he did not speak, or give any sign that he heard, though Uncle Peter was talking all the while he dressed the wound.
“It’s going to take some time,” he said. “The bullet broke his shoulder blade, but if the lung is touched at all it was barely grazed. Nevada spoke of my taking him down the river to Needles, but it can’t be done. The engine in the launch is useless until I can get a new connecting rod and another part or two.” He stared down at Johnny Buffalo, frowning.
“Well, from all accounts the two of you saved the women’s lives to-day,” he said, after a minute of studying over the situation. “Queo was after the grub, probably—and he’s no particular love for any of us. He undoubtedly knew who was coming down the trail—he may have watched them go up, just about daybreak. Common gratitude gives the orders, in this case. You can stay here until this man is well enough to ride, or until I can take you to Needles.”
A little more of harshness and his tone would have been grudging. Rawley flushed at the implied reluctance of the offered hospitality.