Cavanagh waited till a silence came; then called, softly: “Here’s your breakfast, Wetherford.”
“Move away,” retorted the man within. “Keep your distance.”
Ross walked away a little space and Wetherford came to the door. “The dago is sure sick, there’s no two ways about that. How far is it to the nearest doctor?”
“I could reach one by ’phone from the Kettle Ranch, about twenty miles below here.”
“If he don’t get better to-day I reckon we’ll have to have a doctor.” He looked so white and old that Cavanagh said:
“You need rest. Now I think I’ve had the smallpox—I know I’ve been vaccinated, and if you go to bed—”
“If you’re saying all that preliminary to offering to come in here, you’re wasting your breath. I don’t intend to let you come any nearer than you are. There is work for you to do. Besides, there’s my girl; you’re detailed to look after her.”
“Would a doctor come?” asked Ross, huskily, moved by Wetherford’s words. “It’s a hard climb. Would they think the dago worth it?”
Wetherford’s face darkened with a look of doubt. “It is a hard trip for a city man, but maybe he would come for you—for the Government.”
“I doubt it, even if I were to offer my next month’s salary as a fee. These hills are very remote to the townsfolk, and one dago more or less of no importance, but I’ll see what I can do.”