He was down and standing beside his horse. “I counted my chickens ahead of time,” he answered, and smiled ruefully. “They’re gittin’ a city doc for Blue Top.”
As he slipped off saddle and bridle she stood in silence, her eyes on the ground. But when he came over and paused beside her she looked up at him bravely, for all the tears on her lashes. “Never mind about Blue Top,” she said. “Think what a fine doctor you are now. And you’re so young. If you go on with your studying——”
“I’ll tell you what’s the matter with me,” he said very earnestly. “I cure, don’t I? But I don’t dress good enough. I don’t know how to talk. And I ain’t one of them stylish, top-buggy physicians.” He looked up the street to his own gate. A man had pulled up before it—a queer-looking individual mounted on a raw-boned mule and wearing a long, tan linen duster and a black slouch hat. “The fact is,” he went on, “I’m not Doctor Hunter. That’s it. I’m just ‘Doc.’”
The man on the mule was advancing toward them. Letty hastened to inquire about Blue Top. “You didn’t tell me who was sick at the mine,” she reminded.
“Mrs. Eastman. But—she wasn’t sick.”
“She wasn’t sick?” Letty raised a puzzled face.
“Just unhappy. Eastman didn’t say what about. But her poor heart’s a-breakin’.”
The man on the mule pulled up for a second time, near by. “Are you Doc Hunter?” he demanded. The voice sounded muffled.
“I’m the Doc.”
“A friend of mine is sick—out of town here a little ways.”