"The shock would have dropped a man raised in the cities right off, but I think we'll pull him round," he said. "Still, it's not going to be done in a day or two."
The fact was very evident, and Ingleby nodded. "How long do you think it will be before he can walk again?" he said.
"A month, anyway, and quite likely six weeks; that is, before you could let him start out on the trail. I don't quite know what we're going to do with him in the meanwhile."
Tomlinson, who appeared to understand him, looked up with his face awry.
"You're not going to do anything," he said half-coherently. "I'll give myself up. I can't stay here and make trouble for the boys."
"You go to sleep!" said the other man severely, and made a little sign to Ingleby, who sat silent for a minute or two after Tomlinson sank back again on the twigs.
"That's just the point," he said. "The boys don't mean to let the police have him?"
"No," and Ingleby's manner suggested that the subject was not worth discussion. "They wouldn't think of it for a minute. I'd have nothing more to do with them if they did."
The American nodded. "Well," he said, "I can pull the man round, but I'm not going to answer for what will happen if the troopers get hold of him. He's tough, but he wants looking after, and there's no one at the outpost knows more than enough to pull a stone out of a cayuse's hoof."
"You can take out a bullet, anyway," said Ingleby suggestively.