As he neared Silvertip's door he raised his head decisively and mounting the steps entered without knocking.
His glance swept the small room with its snowy sand-scoured floor, its rectangular box-stove of sheet-iron, and two corner bunks, one above the other.
"Well, Silvertip, you and Harlan are the last ones on my list. I can't find him any place, but I see you've come to anchor all right. What's the matter with you?" He addressed the wan-looking Silvertip in the lower bunk.
A long-drawn sigh quivered up from the blankets, and with a shaking hand the Swede indicated his head.
"My ol' ooman (groan) . . . lick hal outen me . . . (groan)!"
Kilbuck bent down and parted the fair, blood-matted hair on the side of his patient's head.
"Oh, you're not much hurt, man. You and Senott ought to learn to take a little drink together without beating each other up this way." He laughed as he made ready to cleanse the cut. "May I inquire where the lady is this morning?"
Between groans the injured husband profanely unburdened himself:
"She go down de tarn Injune house vit dat tarn Injune hunter,
Hoots-noo!"
"Trouble with you, Silver, you're too good to women. Now, instead of using the iron hand on them you show the yellow streak——"