Verrill crumpled. He toppled, and sprawled. He was, however, conscious, and when he heard what the mountaineers were saying he realized that had he done it intentionally, he could not have done better than collapse.
One said, "He's left his body for awhile to fight off the devils, so they won't come back to hurt the kid."
Verrill muttered and mumbled until, satisfied that his act had been up to their expectation, he sat up. Again, he faced a pistol, but this time it was presented butt foremost.
"Take it, doctor. It's yours," the kid's father said.
And now Kwangtan, the fire priest, joined the group.
His deep-set eyes blazed fiercely. His face was sunken. His hands were like parchment drawn over bones. He wore white pants and a white shirt. His beard and his shoulder-length hair were white. For a moment, Verrill thought that the old fellow was a veteran of The War. His age made him fantastic in a colony where men over forty were scarce, and those over fifty, rarities; though old women were more than plentiful.
Verrill declined the gift of the pistol. "Give it to the holy man," he said. "I did not come here for pay."
Then he went with Ardelan to sit under the black awning where the chief settled disputes, and planned raids on neighboring tribes.
"Excellency," Verrill pointed out, "holding a pistol at a doctor's head is no way of making sure he'll help the patient."