“If there’s a blanket handy, I’d like to have some of you help carry him over to the hotel,” said Hashknife. “We’ve got a room over there.”
The blanket was forthcoming, and there were plenty of volunteers to act as stretcher-bearers. They put Sleepy on the bed, and several of the men waited with Hashknife, until the old doctor arrived. Among them were Slim Regan and Kent Cutter. Hashknife had nothing to say. He sat at the head of the bed, his lean face very grim in the lamplight.
It was the first time in their wanderings that either of them had been seriously hurt. Hashknife knew that only half of the plot had succeeded. These men, whoever they were, had planned to kill him and Sleepy.
It was an hour before the doctor arrived. He sent for more lamps, and the men held them over Sleepy while he made his examination.
“Close,” he muttered. “Went all the way through. Must have went through on an angle. Bad shock, lost lots of blood. Can’t tell all about it yet.”
He straightened up and peered at Hashknife.
“Pretty lucky, I think. Gut shot is very bad. Unless I miss my guess, he’ll pull through. Put the lamps on the table and get me plenty of hot water.”
Hashknife stretched his full length and sighed deeply.
“Glad, eh?” said Regan.
“Glad?” Hashknife blinked painfully.