“He has.”
“Whar’s ther baron?”
“We’ll see the baron later, Nick.”
The adobe shack had long been abandoned. It was scarcely more than a shelter at best.
Buffalo Bill and his party were ushered into the hovel by Wild Bill. On a blanket, at one side of the only room the hut contained, lay a man groaning with pain and with a bandage about his forehead.
“Red Steve!” gasped Lige Benner, pushing eagerly forward.
“I don’t care who the nation he is,” growled the doctor, “he’s a man that needs attention.”
“He’s already had attention, doc,” said Wild Bill.
“Not professional,” and the doctor’s critical eye surveyed the rough bandage. “Why wasn’t a doctor called before?” he demanded, fixing an accusing eye on Wild Bill.
“Because Red Steve wouldn’t have it. He swore he’d kill himself if I went for a doctor. You see, Steve has something on his mind. He was afraid he’d be landed for the shooting of Ace Hawkins. I didn’t dare tell him he was to have visitors this morning—but he’s got to a point where he don’t much care what happens to him. He’s got his ticket, friends.”