“You were held up?”
“I don’t know,” and the driver passed his hand across his head and said:
“It pains me, Bill.”
“Come, Ned, get down from your box, for there is a brook here, and let me dress that wound. I have a needle and thread and can stitch it up for you, for it is an ugly-looking gash. Then tell me all you can remember.”
The driver obeyed without a word, allowed the scout to take the stitches in the wound without flinching and fixed his handkerchief over it, wet with arnica which Buffalo Bill always carried with him.
“It feels better now, Bill, thankee.”
“Oh, you’ll come round all right soon,” and the scout said no more, for he did not wish to hurry the driver and perhaps fret him in the condition in which he then was.
After a few moments of silence, Ned said:
“I think it was a rock, Bill.”
“What was?”