Sim looked down at his bandaged leg with a gesture.
"How come that?"
"One of them damn broncs cut me with his forefoot when I was unhitching. Did you git track of them anywhere? They run off."
"They're hanging around here," said Wid indifferently. He bent over the wounded member. "So struck you with his front hoof? That's a bad leg, Sim. It's getting black; and here's some red streaks."
"I'm some scared about it," said Sim. "Seems to me I'd better get to a doctor. I got to get me a dog first, and some hens."
Wid Gardner took a hasty but careful inventory of his friend's appearance, his shaven face, his clean hands, his new clothing.
"How's your wife, Sim?" he said, grinning.
"That lady, she's all right. Left her paring spuds. And I want to say to you, Wid, while I'm away from there, everybody else stays away too."
"What, not get to see the bride? That ain't very friendly, seems to me."
"Well, what I said goes."