“Is the man still alive?” he asked.
“He won’t be, if yuh don’t quit yappin’ and get him to a doctor,” declared Sleepy.
The sheriff came closer and peered into the stage. He was a serious-looking person, round eyed and with a heavy mustache. After a short inspection he nodded and turned to the driver.
“Take him to the doctor, Pete.”
“You go along, Sheriff?” asked the driver.
“No, I can’t. I’m right in a big pot. See yuh later.”
He turned and hurried back across the street, while the stage went on down to the doctor’s home.
Doctor Henry answered their knock, arrayed in a nightgown and a blanket, and told them to bring the man into the house.
An examination showed that the young man had been shot through the left shoulder, and that the bullet was still in him. He had lost considerable blood, but the doctor assured them that the wound was not necessarily fatal.
“I don’t know him,” replied the driver, in answer to the doctor’s questions. “He ride from Caliente. He say somet’ing ’bout San Francisco. He don’t talk much. Maybe somebody know him here.”