“Two weeks,” muttered the physician.
A low exclamation came from the shepherd. “It was you—you who brought the horses to the ranch that night?”
The artist smiled grimly. “The officers saw me, and thought that I was one of the men they wanted. It’s alright, though.” The old scholar instinctively lifted his hands and looked at them. He remembered the saddle, wet with blood.
Making a careful examination, the doctor asked more questions. When he had finished and had skilfully replaced the bandages, the wounded man asked, “What about it, Dr. Coughlan?” The kind hearted physician jerked out a volley of scientific words and phrases that meant nothing, and busied himself with his medicine case.
When his patient had taken the medicine, the doctor watched him for a few minutes, and then asked, “Feel stronger, Howard?”
The artist nodded. “Tell me the truth, now, Doctor. I know that I am going. But how long have I? Wait a minute first. Where’s Pete? Come here, my boy.” The lad drew near. “Father.” Mr. Howitt seated himself on the bedside. “You’ll be strong, father? We are ready now, Dr. Coughlan.”
“Yes, tell us, David,” said the shepherd, and his voice was steady.
The physician spoke, “Matter of hours, I would say. Twenty-four, perhaps; not more; not more.”
“There is no possible chance, David?” asked the shepherd.
Again the little doctor took refuge behind a broadside of scientific terms before replying, “No; no possible chance.”