“Yes, indeed,” said the doctor, reaching for his medical bag. “He’s got a nasty bump on the back of his head, but nothing serious. There’s no concussion. He may be a little sick at his stomach from all the water he swallowed, but that’ll pass. The only thing he needs right now is a little broth and a good night’s sleep.”
“He’ll get both,” Mr. Henderson promised.
“Good.” The doctor moved to the door and turned. “You know,” he said, “Joe’s a mighty lucky man. If Luke had been a few minutes later, he’d be finished.” He shrugged and pushed his way out. “As it is, I expect he’ll be up and around by tomorrow. Goodbye. Let me know if he becomes delirious or suddenly starts to run a fever.”
“We will,” Mr. Cook assured him. “Goodbye, Doctor, and thanks a lot.”
“Right.” The doctor smiled around the room and stepped out of the cabin.
“Well,” Mr. Cook said, after the doctor had gone. “I think we better ask Joe a few questions. Where is he?”
“He’s in this room right here.” Mr. Henderson walked over to a door and knocked gently. “Joe!” he called. “You’ve got company.”
“Come in!” answered a voice.
Joe was sitting up in bed, wearing a red flannel nightshirt that belonged to Mr. Henderson. With the white bandage wrapped around his head he looked even more like an Indian than he had earlier that afternoon. He smiled in welcome as he caught sight of the Cooks and Sandy. “Boy!” he said. “Am I glad to see you again! Did you get those guns sighted in?”
Mr. Cook moved to the foot of the bed. “We had just finished when we heard the news. What happened, Joe?”