He dropped on his knees beside Hashknife, grasping Jimmy’s shoulders.
“Hey! Jimmy!” he exclaimed.
“Don’t shake him!” roared Eskimo. “You big idiot!”
“Somebody go and find a doctor,” ordered Hashknife. “We’ll take him in the hotel.”
They carried him into the little hotel office, where there was light enough for them to discover that Jimmy Legg had missed death by a very scant margin. The bullet had struck him just above his left ear, slanted along his skull, and had furrowed deeply for about three inches.
Some one had gone after a doctor, and in the meantime Hashknife secured a basin of water and a towel, with which he mopped some of the blood away.
“I heard that shot,” said the proprietor of the hotel. “I thought it was somebody just makin’ a noise. Say, I seen that young feller talkin’ to Miss Taylor not five minutes ago. They was just outside the door there.”
“To Miss Taylor, eh?” Johnny blinked at the lamp. “Is she here now?”
The commotion in the office attracted Marion’s attention, and she was standing in the hallway door when Johnny spoke.
“I’m here,” she said. “What do you want of me?”