“I do, my dear deputy—and you will be at my side—except where we are obliged to ride single-file. Stop moaning, and dress.”
“I wish I could contact Doctor Bogart about this,” whispered Judge. “He would know what to do about it.”
“I suppose we should take rifles along,” muttered Henry, yanking at his boot.
“Rifles?” Judge sat on the edge of the bed and stared at Henry. “Why—uh—the man is dead, isn’t he, Henry?”
“Get dressed,” said Henry. “It is almost daylight.”
“What you need is a sedative, sir,” declared Judge.
“What I need is a deputy, I’m afraid.”
Judge grabbed a boot and glared at Henry. “Indeed? Until you fall on your head—I am satisfactory. Do not blame me, Henry—you do not realize your condition.” Henry selected an old, leather coat and drew it on, saying, “I’d advise that you wear a leather jacket, Judge—that brush tears cloth badly. I’ll meet you at the office—with the horses. Do not keep me waiting, my boy.”
“You have your boots on the wrong feet, Henry.”
“I have not, sir; I am toeing-out—to keep my balance. It has been a hard night.”