Sheriff Fleming and a uniformed courtesy patrolman were directly behind the doctor. Shayne met them in the doorway, warning:
“Let’s leave everything as is until the doctor gets through.”
“Who is it this time, Mr. Shayne?” The sheriff’s weatherbeaten face showed grave concern. “Cal Strenk came running and yelling there was another dead man up here—”
Shayne shook his head. “He isn’t dead — yet. That is—” He turned his head. “How about it, Doctor?”
The doctor rocked back on his heels and said briskly, “There’s little I can do for him here. He must be removed to a hospital at once.”
“Will he live?”
“I can’t say,” the doctor snapped. “Certainly not unless he receives immediate care under the best conditions.”
Shayne whirled on the dumpy physician, his features strained and bleak. “Can you give him something to bring him around long enough to answer a few questions?”
The doctor raised himself to his full height, bringing the top of his head level with Shayne’s chin. “I might, but it would probably be fatal. The longer he remains in this coma the better his chances of ultimate recovery. Sheriff Fleming, will you get some men in here to carry him down the hill?”
“You bet I will, Doc.” While the sheriff ordered two husky young men in to strip a quilt from the bunk, Shayne caught the doctor’s arm. “Just a moment. Is it suicide?”