But he proved singularly embarrassed and nervous and uncommunicative, darting his glance here and there about him, twisting his hands, never by any chance meeting my eye. I leaned back and surveyed him in considerable disgust.
"Look here, brother," I pointed out to him. "You don't seem to realize. A man like you can't get away with himself in this country except behind footlights—and there ain't any footlights. All I got to do is to throw open yonder door and withdraw my beneficent protection and you will be set upon by a pack of ravening wolves with their own ideas of humour, among whom I especially mention one Windy Bill. I'm about the only thing that looks like a friend you've got."
He caught at the last sentence only.
"You my friend?" he said, breathlessly, "then tell me: is there a doctor around here?"
"No," said I, looking at him closely, "not this side of Tucson. Are you sick?"
"Is there a drug store in town, then?"
"Nary drug store."
He jumped to his feet, knocking over his chair as he did so.
"My God!" he cried in uncontrollable excitement, "I've got to get my bag! How far is it to the next station where they're going to put it off? Ain't there some way of getting there? I got to get to my bag."
"It's near to forty miles," I replied, leaning back.