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Updated: May 25, 2025
I heard the rest of the story from Si Perkins next fall, when he brought on a couple of car-loads of steers to Chicago, and tried to stick me half a cent more than the market for them on the strength of our having come from the same town. It seems that the young man who took Doc's place was one of these fellows with pink tea instead of red blood in his veins.
"How's the head?" he inquired. Bull put up a hand to the bandage encircling his bullet head and swore feelingly. "Guess it does hurt some," was Doc's comment. "Doc Alton took three stitches. Lucky you was still senseless. He had to use a harness-needle."
"Meanin'?" asked the other, as he mechanically swabbed the bar. "Meanin' that you an' Doc's goin' to help me do it. An' that hain't all. Tonight 'long 'bout dance time I want that saddle horse o' yourn an' yer sideways saddle, too. They's a gal o' mine come in on the train, which she'll be wantin', mebbe, to take a ride, an' hain't fetched no split-up clothes fer to straddle a real saddle.
Bounding in at the door, that enthusiastic bit of awkwardness and good intentions jumped on the front of Miss Doc's dress, gave a lick at her hand, scooted back to his master, and wagged himself against the tables, chairs, and walls with clumsy dexterity. Sniffing and bumping his nose on the carpet, he pranced through the door to the kitchen.
Hassard stood idly, stunned apparently by a sort of white-hot work he was not used to, and received his death wound without any effort even to draw. Meantime, the firm of Lykins and Llewellyn accounted for two more before Doc's mates got out of range.
"From Edison, like the others so far. Jack Kooley," Jake answered Doc's question. "Durwood spent a lot of time here on his first expedition, so it's getting the worst of it." Doc pulled the aspirator mask back over the man's face and they carried him out and laid him on a low dune. They couldn't risk returning the corpse to its people.
Doc Coffin stood back and stared at the stertorously breathing lump on the floor with a cold eye. "Ain't he a mess?" he observed. "Ain't he a mess? I expect he'll be right down peevish about it when he comes to." "Think so?" Honey Hoke was not quite sure of the point of Doc's remark. "Yeah, I think so. I'm shore he will when I tell him how he was kicked." "Kicked?" "Shore kicked.
There, in Blythe's Bunk, the only home he knew, they laid him gently down and at Doc's request those who were not needed went out. The victim lay quite unconscious, his face ghastly pale and with a look of being polished caused perhaps by the water which Doc Carson kept applying. The wet, matted hair, too, gave him a ghastly, unhuman look.
Smoke called across the main street to his partner, who was trudging along in his swift, slack-jointed way, a naked bottle with frozen contents conspicuously tucked under his arm. Smoke crossed over. "Where have you been all morning? Been looking for you everywhere." "Up to Doc's," Shorty answered, holding out the bottle. "Something's wrong with Sally.
She looked back, now, on her morning's careless happiness as an old man looks back on the heyday of his youth. Heavy with sympathy, non-comprehension and fear, she brooded over these dark, mysterious hints about the handsome Cleveland man; over young Doc's blighted love; over Miss Princess's wanting to "back out"; over old Mrs. Greenleaf's strange, dominant "pride."
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