For a barely appreciable instant his eye held mine after I had ceased speaking, as though he was appraising me. Then he bowed with old-fashioned courtesy.
“At your service, sir,” said he. “Pete, you black rascal, get my bag, and get it quick.”
The little negro, who had stood by obviously worshipping, broke into a grin and darted into the hotel, almost instantly reappearing with a regulation professional satchel.
“At your service, sir,” repeated Dr. Rankin.
We took our stately progress up the street, through the deep red dust. The hot sun glared down upon us, reflecting from the surface of the earth in suffocating heat. Hard as I was, I flushed and perspired. The doctor never turned a hair. As we passed one of the saloons a huge, hairy man lurched out, nearly colliding with us. He was not drunk, but he was well flushed with drink. His mood was evidently ugly, for he dropped his hand to the butt of his revolver, and growled something truculent at me, glaring through bloodshot eyes. Dr. Rankin, who had stepped back to avoid collision, spoke up:
“Malone,” said he, “I told you a week ago that you have to stop drinking or come to me. I repeat it.”
260He turned his keen black eyes upon the big man, and stepped forward. The big man muttered something and moved aside.
Arrived at the hut of the Moreñas, for that it seemed was the name of our host and hostess, Dr. Rankin laid aside his furry beaver hat, walked directly to the side of the bunk on which Yank lay, and began his examination, without vouchsafing anything or anybody else the slightest glance. Nor did he seem to pay more attention to Yank as a human being, but prodded and pulled and hauled and manipulated him from top to toe, his gray, hawk face intent and absorbed. Occasionally, as he repeated some prod, he looked up keenly into Yank’s face, probably for some slight symptom of pain that escaped us, for Yank remained stoical. But he asked no questions. At the end of ten minutes he threw the blanket over our friend’s form and stood erect, carefully dusting the ends of his fingers against one another.
“Broken leg, badly set,” said he; “two broken ribs; severe surface bruises; and possibility of internal bruises in the region of the spleen. Neglected too long. Why wasn’t I sent for before?”
I explained. Dr. Rankin listened attentively, but made no comment. His eyes travelled slowly over us all–the fat, pleasant, brown California woman, her bearded husband, who had come in from the diggings, Bagsby’s tall, wiry old form, the worn remains of Don Gaspar’s finery, and lingered a moment on Johnny’s undisguisable air of high spirit and breeding.