"I did!" retorted Buck. "I know what happens when my outfit burns powder. Where's Red?" he asked anxiously.
"Here I am," replied a voice behind him.
"All right; take that Greaser to th' hut, somebody," the foreman ordered. "Johnny, you an' Pete take this feller there, too," pointing to Frisco. "He's th' one that killed Frenchy. Hopalong, take Red, an' bring in that feller me an' Meeker tied up in that crevice, if he ain't got away."
Hopalong and Red went off to bring in Hall and Buck turned to the others. "You fellers doctor yore wounds. Meeker, yo're hard hit," he remarked, more closely looking at the H2 foreman.
"Yes. I know it—loss of blood, mostly," Meeker replied. "An' if it hadn't been for Cassidy I'd been hit a d——d sight harder. Where's Doc? He knows what to do—Doc!"
"Coming," replied a voice and Doc turned the corner. He had a limited knowledge of the work he was called upon to do, and practice, though infrequent, had kept it more or less fresh.
"Reckon yo're named about right, Doc," Buck remarked as he passed the busy man. "You got me beat an' I ain't no slouch."
"I'd 'a been a real Doc if I hadn't left college like a fool to punch cows,—you've got to keep still, Jim," he chided.
"Hey, Buck," remarked Hopalong, joining the crowd and grinning at the injured, "we've got that feller in th' shack. When th' feller I grabbed out here saw him he called him Hall. Th' other is Frisco an' th' Greaser ain't got no name, I reckon. How you feeling, Meeker? That was Shaw plugged you."
"Feeling better'n him," Meeker growled. "Yo're a good man to work with, Cassidy."