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Updated: May 2, 2025
The doctor examined him and said he was sound as a mesquite knot." "That doctor," said Ylario, smiling, "he tell you so? That doctor no see McGuire." "Talk up," ordered Raidler. "What the devil do you mean?" "McGuire," continued the boy tranquilly, "he getting drink water outside when that doctor come in room.
A creature was ill and helpless; he had the power to render aid these were the only postulates required for the cattleman to act. They formed his system of logic and the most of his creed. McGuire was the seventh invalid whom Raidler had picked up thus casually in San Antonio, where so many thousand go for the ozone that is said to linger about its contracted streets.
Raidler waited patiently, glancing around at the white hats, short overcoats, and big cigars thronging the platform. "You're from the No'th, ain't you, bud?" he asked when the other was partially recovered. "Come down to see the fight?" "Fight!" snapped McGuire. "Puss-in-the-corner! 'Twas a hypodermic injection.
You made your spiel, and you t'rowed me out, and I let it go at dat. And, say, friend, dis chasin' cows is outer sight. Dis is de whitest bunch of sports I ever travelled with. You'll let me stay, won't yer, old man?" Raidler looked wonderingly toward Ross Hargis. "That cussed little runt," remarked Ross tenderly, "is the Jo-dartin'est hustler and the hardest hitter in anybody's cow camp."
I couldn't sidestep a jab from a five-year-old kid. That's what your d d ranch has done for me. There's nothing to eat, nothing to see, and nobody to talk to but a lot of Reubens who don't know a punching bag from a lobster salad." "It's a lonesome place, for certain," apologised Raidler abashedly. "We got plenty, but it's rough enough.
After remaining in the smoke-tainted room for a while, he emerged and bluntly confided his suspicions to Raidler. "His arm," said Chad, "is harder'n a diamond. He interduced me to what he called a shore-perplexus punch, and 'twas like being kicked twice by a mustang. He's playin' it low down on you, Curt. He ain't no sicker'n I am.
It was not like the boss to make them. "What's left of 'em don't miss no calls to grub," the cook conceded. "What's left of 'em?" repeated Raidler in a husky voice. Mechanically he began to look around for McGuire's grave. He had in his mind a white slab such as he had seen in the Alabama church-yard. But immediately he knew that was foolish. "Sure," said Pete; "what's left.
After dinner Raidler took him aside, pushed a twenty-dollar bill against his hand, and said: "Doc, there's a young chap in that room I guess has got a bad case of consumption. I'd like for you to look him over and see just how bad he is, and if we can do anything for him." "How much was that dinner I just ate, Mr. Raidler?" said the doctor bluffly, looking over his spectacles.
Swearing, stumbling, shivering, keeping his amazed, shining eyes upon the now menacing form of the aroused cattleman, McGuire managed to tumble into his clothes. Then Raidler took him by the collar and shoved him out and across the yard to the extra pony hitched at the gate. The cow-punchers lolled in their saddles, open-mouthed. "Take this man," said Raidler to Ross Hargis, "and put him to work.
Do I have to tell you again?" He caught McGuire by the neck and stood him on the floor. "Say, friend," cried McGuire wildly, "are you bug-house? I'm sick see? I'll croak if I got to hustle. What've I done to yer?" he began his chronic whine "I never asked yer to " "Put on your clothes," called Raidler in a rising tone.
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