She came swiftly across the room, thrusting a long-barreled automatic pistol into its holster under a fold of her skirt. Her other hand drew out a locket that was suspended in her bosom.
“Whiskey! I’m bitten!” panted Ashton, sucking frantically at his wounds. “Quick! I’m bitten. Give me whiskey!”
“Steady, steady,” she reassured. “It’s not bad––only 108 on your hand. Give it to me. Here’s something a thousand times better than whiskey––permanganate.”
While speaking, she caught up his neckerchief from the head of the bunk and knotted it about the wrist of the wounded hand tightly enough to check the circulation.
“Now hold it steady,” she directed. “Won’t have to use a knife. You tore open the holes when you jerked off the horrid thing.”
Obedient but still sweating with fear, he held up the bleeding hand. She had opened her locket, in which were a number of small, dark-purple crystals. Two of the larger ones she thrust lengthwise as deeply as she could into the little slits gashed by the fangs. Another large and two small crystals were all that she could force into the openings.
“There!” she cheerily exclaimed. “That will kill the poison in short order, and will not hurt you a particle. It’s the best thing there is to cheat rattlers,––just cheap, ordinary permanganate of potash. If people only had sense enough always to carry a few crystals, no one would ever die of rattlesnake bites.”
“I’ve––I’ve heard that whiskey––” began Ashton.
“Yes, and far more victims die from the whiskey than from the bites,” rejoined Isobel.