"I looked into a room about as big as this we sit in. It was filled with men, most of them on the floor with their backs to the wall. There was a cot in one corner, and a pine table on which stood a cheap kerosene lamp, and one or two chairs. The only other furniture were a flour-barrel and a dry-goods box. On top of the barrel was a tin coffeepot, a china cup, and half a loaf of bread. Against the window—there was but one—was tacked a ragged calico quilt, shutting out air and light. Flat on the floor, where the light of the lamp fell on his face, lay a man dressed only in his trousers and undershirt. The shirt was clotted with blood; so were the mattress under him and the floor.
"'Shot?' I asked of the man nearest me.
"'Yes.'
"I knelt down on the floor beside him and opened his shirt. The wound was just above the heart; the bullet had struck a rib, missed the lungs, and gone out at the back. Dangerows, but not necessarily fatal.
"The man turned his head and opened his eyes. He was a stockily built fellow of thirty with a clean-shaven face.
"'Is that you, "Doc"?'
"'Yes, where does it hurt?'
"'"Doc" Shipman—who used to be at Bellevue five or six years ago?'
"'Yes—now tell me where the pain is.'
"'Let me look at you. Yes—that's him. That's the "Doc," boys. Where does it hurt?—Oh, all around here—back worst'—and he passed his hand over his side.