The medicine case must be placed in just such a position on the seat, the glasses must be polished, before he would take the halter off his horse. As he coiled up the halter rope to place it in its accustomed place in the buggy bed, he looked up at Marsh Hartwell, who had just ridden in.
Hartwell’s eyes were red-rimmed and there was a weary stoop to his big shoulders as he spoke to the doctor.
“What’s new, Doc? Patient doin’ well?”
“The patient,” said the good doctor slowly, “is dead. He passed away at exactly six-thirty-two.”
It was like the doctor to be exact.
“Dead?” Marsh Hartwell turned away and glanced toward the bunk house. “Old Ed Barber is dead. I didn’t think he was hurt that bad, Doc.”
“It seems that he was,” dryly. “Two bullets had passed entirely through him, one of them puncturing his lung. It was impossible to stop the internal bleeding. I shall notify the sheriff at once. It is, I believe, a case for the coroner, Marsh.”
“Yes.” Marsh Hartwell sighed deeply. “I—send me the bill will yuh, Doc?”
“There will be no bill, Marsh. I liked old Ed, and that was the least I could do for him.”
The doctor got into his buggy and drove away. Marsh Hartwell stared after him for several moments before he turned toward the house, where Mrs. Hartwell and Mrs. Brownlee were waiting for news from the dead-line.