She stirred a little. He moved back. As, reviving, she opened her eyes, they fell upon him. But he was half-turned away, his face as blank and lifeless as a mask.
She gave a startled cry and sat up. “Me hurtee?” she asked him, adopting pidgin-English. “Me fallee off?”
Fong Wu rose. “You were thrown,” he answered gravely.
She coloured in confusion. “Pardon me,” she said, “for speaking to you as if you were a coolie.” Then, as she got feebly to her feet—“I believe my right arm is broken.”
“I have some knowledge of healing,” he declared; “let me look at it.” Before she could answer, he had ripped the sleeve away. “It is only a sprain,” he said. “Wait.” He went inside for an amber liquid and bandages. When he had laved the injured muscles, he bound them round.
“How did it happen?” she asked, as he worked. He was so courteous and professional that her alarm was gone.
“Your horse was frightened by a rattlesnake in the road. I heard it whir.”
She shuddered. “I ought to be thankful that I didn’t come my cropper on it,” she said, laughing nervously.
He went inside again, this time to prepare a cupful of herbs. When he offered her the draught, she screwed up her face over its nauseating fumes.
“If that acts as strongly as it tastes,” she said, after she had drunk it, “I’ll be well soon.”