“If you’ll go in the house with me,” said the scout, “I’ll tell you what I want in a few minutes.”
“Invite him in, Hank,” suggested Bloom, “but walk behind him.”
“Oh, you fellers do make me all-fired tired,” grunted the doctor. “Come in, Buffalo Bill. I’m gladder’n blazes that I happen to be here.”
The doctor returned into the house. Buffalo Bill followed him, and the two others followed Buffalo Bill. Once inside, the scout was not asked to be seated.
“First, doctor,” said the scout, “I’d like to know how Jake Phelps is coming along?”
The doctor shook his head forebodingly.
“He got a rap on the head that was some fierce,” said he, “but it don’t seem to be a fracture. Yet, if it ain’t a fracture, why don’t he corral his wits, open his eyes and talk? He ain’t said a word since he was found in the trail. I’ve done my best to bring him around, because I know two words from Jake would do a hull lot o’ good. He could tell us, right off the bat, who it was knocked him out; then, without any guessin’, the law could get in its work. Personally, I don’t stand for any such foolishness as went on at the Star-A ranch last night. I’m a law and order man, I am, and such doin’s look too much like anarchy to suit me.”
“What are Jake’s chances, doctor?”
“Mebby slim, mebby good. I’m puzzled to beat four of a kind. A few hours more ought to tell the story, though, one way or the other.”
“He was hit with a club?”