“Nat’rally. He’d be kind of interested in hearin’ how Marten had scooped up Nancy Willard.”
Some acrid quality in the storekeeper’s tone must have pierced the fog which had settled on Power’s brain. He raised a hand to push away the glass held to his lips.
“Say, I’ve only secured a broken leg, Mac,” he murmured, smiling into the anxious face bent over him. “I don’t want to be doped as well. Perhaps Mr. Benson will mount that nag of his, and bring Peters.”
“Look-a here, Derry, hadn’t we better send to Denver?”
“No. Peters has set dozens of legs and arms.”
“I guess he’s back at the ranch. He went thar, an’ I hain’t seen him among the crowd.”
“Is he a tall, red-whiskered chap, with a nose that needs keeping out of the sun?” broke in Benson.
“Yep. That’s him.”
“Well, he’s there now—and—not so bad. Does he really understand bone-setting?”
“Sure. He’s all to rights when not too much in likker.”