It was the nearest approach to thanks or praise he had given Ross.
"That Cody doctor ain’t worth shucks," confirmed Hank, who occupied a box beside the stove. "He tended a feller that I knew, and let ’im die." The speaker looked from Ross to his patient with an expression which plainly said that the former could not be guilty of any such charge.
The brown eyes of the patient rolled slowly in their sockets until their gaze could rest on Ross. Then the lids dropped over them. "The Cody doctor be hanged!" he remarked again more affably, and fell asleep.
Ross continued to sit on his heels until his patient commenced to snore. Then he glanced at the occupant of the box seat and asked softly:
"Hank, has Weston ever told you where he came from?"
"Nope," responded Hank absently. "Not where he hails from ner where he’s started fer, ner why, ner what fer. That’s nothin’ though, Doc." Here Hank looked sidewise at Ross. "You’ll find, if ye stay in these parts long, that there’s lots of men who ain’t partin’ with every fact they know within ten minutes after ye’re introduced to ’em. And you’ll find, too, that it ain’t always healthy to ask questions. Ye have th’ sort of sense who ye can question and who ye can’t."
"And this fellow––" Ross jerked his head in the direction of the sleeper.
Hank yawned and reached for the poker and a stick of wood. "I ain’t aimin’ to inquire fer into his history–unless I could inquire of some one else besides himself, that is. Hello!" he interrupted himself suddenly with the stick held over the stove. "Who’s that hikin’ over the Creek?"
Ross arose with alacrity and went to the door. The first snow had fallen on the bad lands, but in an hour it had been whisked away by a warm northwest wind, leaving the ground soft and a little stream of water in Dry Creek across which rode a man who proved to be a prospector from the mountains.
"Must have had a bit of snow here," he called as he turned his horse into the corral. "Up t’ Miners’ Camp it’s two inches deep and driftin’."