"After her, boys! That's too much to stand. Never mind the fort."
They raced in pursuit. The one Indian was searching for his gun; the other Indians, coming in, halted, confused. Mrs. Pursley was there first—already on the ground and bending over Ranger Tom, trying to lift him to her saddle. They had no time to waste. One helped her—slung Tom across in front of a saddle; and fighting a rear action they gained the block-house without a wound.
Tom Higgins was the hero, but Mrs. Pursley was the heroine.
Two of his bullets were taken out, and he got well, except for a limp and considerable "botheration" from a third bullet. After the war he made a day's ride to find a doctor and have the ball extracted.
"What's your fee, Doc?"
"It'll be fifty dollars."
"What? Not much, by golly! That's more than half a year's pension. For less I'll fetch it out, myself."
He wrathfully rode home again; the ball seemed to have worked toward the surface—yes, he could see it, away in.
"Old woman, hand me my razor, will you?" he bade. "And jest put your fingers on this hole and stretch it."
Without a quiver he cut into his thigh, put in his two thumbs, "and," he said, "I flirted that ball out as slick as a whistle, at the cost of nary a cent!"