“Yes.”
“What’s this yarn about One-thumb Jake shootin’ a rattler?”
“I—don’t know. He didn’t shoot me, Mac. I got slammed on a rock, good and hard.”
“I on’y axed because I’m nearly fed up with Jake an’ his gun-play.”
“Ah, quit it, you sleuth. Jake wouldn’t pull his gun on me, not even at Marten’s bidding.”
“He kin be the biggest damn fool in Bison when he’s loaded. Anyhow, I’ll take your say-so.”
There was another period of quietude, when brooding thought sat heavy on MacGonigal, and pain gnawed Power with its sharpest tooth. Then came the sound of galloping horses again, and Benson appeared, guiding a big man who rolled in his walk; for the fast canter had stirred many varieties of alcohol in an overburdened system. The private secretary’s voice was raised in order that the others might hear.
“I would advise you to bandage the limb sufficiently to give Mr. Power some sort of ease until Dr. Stearn comes from Denver,” he was urging. “I am sure that Mr. Marten would wish this case to be attended by his own doctor, and I know that Dr. Stearn attends him.”
“Stearn! What does that old mutt know about surgery?” shouted Peters. “I could set a compound fracture while he was searching around for his eyeglasses.... Hullo, Mac! You’re always the right man in the right place. Bring me a highball, to clear the dust out of the pipes.”
“You jest fix Derry first, Peters, an’ you kin hev two highballs.”