The right hand of the man with the scar stole to his hip.
The doctor ignored the action. He went on speaking with clear directness: “You two fellers’ve located a gold mine. And you’ve got the crazy idea that I’m a-goin’ to bring out a bunch of locators. Wal, git over it. I’m not a prospector: I’m a doc.”
The hand on the weapon rested quiet. The man with the scar drew a gasping breath. Then long and keenly he studied the face of the doctor. After a time he dropped his arm, picked up his bench and reseated himself.
Some little time passed. The doctor smoked and nursed a knee. Once he got up to take the pulse of his patient and again to mark the temperature. But his every movement was leisurely, and he showed no wish to leave. The man with the scar sat, leaning on the table, apparently lost in thought.
All at once he rose. “Well, come on,” he said.
Again the doctor examined the sick man. “This’ll be a bad day for your friend,” he explained. “I’m leavin’ something to chase the pain.”
When they were ready to mount the other addressed him harshly. “Doc,” he said, “if you and me run into anybody on our way back it’ll be you that gets my first shot.”
“That’s a bargain,” answered the doctor good-naturedly.
But, riding out of the cañon, he felt far from confident. The previous night his guide had led briskly. Now the mule was lagging. The doctor found himself moving his body forward in his saddle to urge Bobby on. They had gone only a small part of the way homeward when the mule came to a stop. Bobby halted, too, and the doctor waited like a man who expects a blow in the dark. He listened. The other did not dismount. There was no audible movement ahead. But he felt that sinister face turned upon him.
“Say, that friend of your’n has got a wonderful constitution,” he remarked.