“Another patient here, they tell me,” he grunted in the brusque way that failed to conceal the kindest of hearts.
Buck nodded toward Flandrau.
“Let’s have a look at your arm, young fellow,” the doctor ordered, mopping his bald head with a big bandanna handkerchief.
“What about the boss?” asked Jake presently.
“Mighty sick man, looks like. Tell you more to-morrow morning.”
“Do you mean that he—that he may not get well?” Curly pumped out, his voice not quite steady.
Doctor Brown looked at him curiously. Somehow this boy did not fit the specifications of the desperado that had been poured into his ears.
“Don’t know yet. Won’t make any promises.” He had been examining the wound in a businesslike way. “Looks like the bullet’s still in there. Have to give you an anesthetic while I dig it out.”
“Nothin’ doing,” retorted Flandrau. “You round up the pill in there and I’ll stand the grief. When this lead hypodermic jabbed into my arm it sorter gave me one of them annie-what-d’ye-call-’em—and one’s a-plenty for me.”
“It’ll hurt,” the little man explained.