“Where you goin’, Sam?”
“Out to saddle up the best horse you got. I’m goin’ fer the doctor. I’ll stop by the nearest ranch and have ’em send over somebody to ride herd on you.” The door banged shut behind him.
Sam caught Pete’s best horse. When he had saddled the animal, he came back inside.
“Got that note finished?”
“Yes. But you can’t make it into town, Sam.”
“The hell I can’t. The storm’s quit. I know the road, and I ain’t so drunk but what I kin ride. Lemme have that pencil.”
He scrawled something at the foot of the note. Then he folded the paper and put it into his pocket.
“Hang and rattle, Pete, till the doc gits here.” He poured some of the whisky into an empty vinegar bottle and put the corked bottle into his overcoat. Then he filled the two cups.
“Here’s how, Pete. If the kid looks like you, I shore feel sorry fer the critter.”
Sam tossed down his drink and before Pete Peralta could say a word, he was gone.