And here he sat helplessly upon a hilltop under the stars, many miles from camp, with much medicine just under his knee and a pocket crammed with an unknown, healing herb, as useless after all his effort as he had been in camp when they could not find the Three-H liniment.
"Ain't there anything to give him?" asked Jack, relenting. "That Three-H would fix him up all right " "Dig it up, then," snapped Cal. "There's sure something got to be done, or we'll have a dead cook on our hands." "Not even a drop uh whisky in camp!" mourned Weary. "Slim, you ought to be killed for getting away with that liniment." Slim was too downhearted to resent the tone.
Chip stuck his head under the lifted tent-flap. "Say, I can't find that cussed Three-H bottle," he complained. "What went with it, Cal?" "Ask Slim; he had it last. Ain't Shorty here, yet?" Cal turned again to Patsy, whose outcries were not nice to listen to, "Stay with it, old-timer; we'll have something hot to pour down yuh in a minute." Patsy replied, but pain made him incoherent.
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