When Ricardo glanced at Pacheco after his scrutiny of the pistol and holster, the doctor's dark eyes were regarding him mirthfully.
“I have been unnecessarily alarmed, my general,” said Pacheco. “Our dear friend has been most fortunate in his choice of wounds——”
“He's a lucky Yankee; that's what he is, my dear Pacheco. A lucky Yankee!” Ricardo leaned over and examined the bayonet-wound in Webster's left side. “He took the point of the steel on this pistol he happened to be wearing under his left arm,” he went on to explain. “That turned the bayonet and it slid along his ribs, making a superficial flesh-wound.”
Pacheco nodded. “And this bullet merely burned the top of his right shoulder, while another passed through his biceps without touching the bone. His most severe wound is this jab in the hip.”
They stripped every stitch of clothing from Webster and went over him carefully. At the back of his head they found a little clotted blood from a small split in the scalp; also they found a lump of generous proportions. Pacheco laughed briefly but contentedly.
“Then he is not even seriously injured?” Ricardo interrupted that laugh.
“I would die of fright if I had to fight this fine fellow a month from to-day,” the little doctor chirped. “Look at that chest, mi general—and that flat abdomen. The man is in superb physical condition; it is the bump on the head that renders him unconscious—not loss of blood.”
As if to confirm this expert testimony Webster at that moment breathed long and deeply, screwed up his face and shook his head very slightly. Thereafter for several minutes he gave no further evidence of an active interest in life—seeing which Pacheco decided to take prompt advantage of his unconsciousness and probe the wounds in his arm and shoulder for the fragments of clothing which the bullets must have carried into them. After ten minutes of probing Pacheco announced that he was through and ready to bandage; whereupon John Stuart Webster said faintly but very distinctly, in English:
“I'm awfully glad you are, Doc'. It hurt like hell! Did you manage to get a bite on that fishing-trip?”
“Jack Webster, you scoundrel!” Ricardo yelled joyously, and he shook the patient with entire disregard of the latter's wounds. “Oh, man, I'm glad you're not dead.”