Charley ran out, and soon returned with Dr. Beach, who, happily for us, had been out on one of those errands which are always rousing doctors from their beds.
Dr. Beach was a burly, rough-mannered sort of man, but he could be very kind and tender in the exercise of his profession. He wasted no time in questions, but looked grave when he saw how the old man was hurt.
"Needn't tell me," said the Panther, quietly. "Know it's the end. Kill one of 'em, anyhow!" he concluded in a tone of calm satisfaction.
"And I wish with all my heart you had killed the other," said the doctor, bitterly. "He got off, I suppose."
The Panther showed his white teeth in a laugh. "No," he said, pointing to me: "she got him--she and the cat. Pretty well for one little squaw and pussy-cat. Mamma, you keep that kitty always."
"Where is the scoundrel?" asked the doctor.
"Shut up in that closet."
Here the man within cried out that he was "kilt" already, and should be hung if we did not let him go.
"I hope you will, with all my heart," said the doctor.
With some difficulty we helped the Panther into the parlor and laid him on the sofa.