"Who says you couldn't?" queried Wade. "I never said so. I only said you'd never be a bronco-bustin' cowboy again. Well, suppose you're not? You'll be able to ride a little, if I can save that leg.... Boy, your letter is damn good news. I'm sure glad. That will make Collie happy."
The cowboy had a better appetite that morning, which fact mitigated somewhat the burden of Wade's worry. There was burden enough, however, and Wade had set this day to make important decisions about Moore's injured foot. He had dreaded to remove the last dressing because conditions at that time had been unimproved. He had done all he could to ward off the threatened gangrene.
"Wils, I'm goin' to look at your foot an' tell you things," declared Wade, when the dreaded time could be put off no longer.
"Go ahead.... And, pard, if you say my leg has to be cut off--why just pass me my gun!"
The cowboy's voice was gay and bantering, but his eyes were alight with a spirit that frightened the hunter.
"Ahuh!... I know how you feel. But, boy, I'd rather live with one leg an' be loved by Collie Belllounds than have nine legs for some other lass."
Wilson Moore groaned his helplessness.
"Damn you, Bent Wade! You always say what kills me!... Of course I would!"
"Well, lie quiet now, an' let me look at this poor, messed-up foot."
Wade's deft fingers did not work with the usual precision and speed natural to them. But at last Moore's injured member lay bare, discolored and misshapen. The first glance made the hunter quicker in his movements, closer in his scrutiny. Then he yelled his joy.