Something prompted him to keep off the main street, and he managed to find the rear stairs of the little hotel, where he climbed up and went to his room without seeing anybody. After he lighted the lamp and surveyed his features in the cheap mirror over the pine dresser, he got an idea of the extent of his injuries.
It appeared that a bullet had knocked a chunk of flesh off just above his left eye, and another had struck him a little farther back, behind the left temple, and had cut a jagged furrow to the top of his head. He mopped the gore away with a towel and examined the wounds, which did not pain him so much now.
“Looks as though I had been caressed with a few pieces of buckshot,” he told his reflection. “That bushwhacker misjudged his aim just enough to slip me two outside pellets. No wonder he thought I was plenty dead. That whole load would have torn my head off.”
He washed out the wounds, bound his head in a piece of pillow cover, stripped off his wet clothes and went to bed. His head ached too much for him to sleep, so he was still awake when Sleepy came in, stopped in the doorway and stared at Hashknife’s bandaged head.
Then Sleepy shut the door carefully and came over to the bed.
“My Gawd!” said Sleepy. “What happened to you, Hashknife?”
Hashknife told him, while Sleepy whistled softly.
“How didja get home?” asked Sleepy.
“Walked, I reckon. Don’t remember much about it.”
“I’m goin’ to get the doctor,” declared Sleepy. “You lay still and don’t try to stop me. Here’s yore hat.”