“Thank you,” he said simply.
“I’ve got rheumatism,” stated Hashknife, “and somebody said that yore hot spring was a sure cure. How about it?”
He considered the question gravely. “My dear man, there is no such a thing as a sure cure. It is all theory until proved by practice, and on each individual case. Diseases do not react the same in all bodies.”
“You talk like a doctor,” smiled Hashknife.
“I have studied,” said Big Medicine slowly, pushing back the big mop of hair. “Perhaps I might better say, I have read.”
“Outside of that,” grinned Hashknife, “do I get to try out yore hot water?”
Big Medicine looked narrowly at Hashknife from under his bushy eyebrows for several moments. He seemed undecided. Then:
“I’m not in the habit of allowing strangers to use my spring, sir; but I should be a hell of a citizen if I refused to let a suffering man share what Nature provided. You are welcome to use it as long as you find the need.” He pointed to the rear of the ranch-house. “You will find the bathhouse back there, sir. I think your nose will guide you.”
He smiled and walked back into the house, closing the door behind him.
“Can yuh beat that?” grinned Hashknife. “Looks like one of the old Bible prophets, talks like a dictionary, and throws men out through the front door. No wonder they say queer things about Big Medicine Hawkworth. Let’s find the bathhouse.”