“Move, and I’ll paralyze you!” he cried hoarsely.
And Jake made no further effort. He lay back with a growl of impotent rage, while his hands moved uneasily, mopping his blood-stained features.
Now it was, for the first time, Tresler became aware that the men from the bunkhouse had come upon the scene.
The sight of all those faces gazing in wide-eyed astonishment at the fallen Jake brought home to him something of the enormity of his offense, and it behooved him to get Joe out of further harm’s way. He stooped, and gathering the little choreman tenderly into his powerful arms, lifted him on to his shoulders and strode away to the bunkhouse, followed by his silent, wondering comrades.
He deposited Joe upon his own bed, and the men crowded round. And questions and answers came in a wild volley about him.
It was Arizona who spoke least and rendered most assistance. Together he and Tresler undressed the patient and treated him to a rough surgical examination. They soon found that no limbs were broken, but of his ribs they were less certain. He was severely bruised about the head, and this latter no doubt accounted for his unconsciousness. Cold water, harshly applied, though with kind intent, was the necessary restorative, and after a while the twisted face took on a hue of life and the eyes opened. Then Tresler turned to the men about him.
“Boys,” he said gravely, “I want you all to remember that this is purely my affair. Joe’s and mine—and Jake’s. I shall settle it in my own way. For the present we have our work to do.”
There was a low murmur, and Arizona raised a pair of fierce eyes to his face. He was going to speak—to voice a common thought; but Tresler understood and cut him short.
“Go easy, Arizona. We’re good friends all. You wouldn’t like me to interfere in a quarrel of yours.”