The Sheriff's Son
"It's in my shoulder—just a flesh wound. The bleeding has stopped except when I move."
"Why did n't you say something about it?" she asked impatiently. "Do you think we 're clairvoyants? We'd better get him into the house and look at it, Mr. Dingwell."
They did as she suggested. A bullet had ploughed a furrow across the shoulder. Except for the loss of blood, the wound was not serious. With the help of Miss Rutherford, which was given as a matter of course and quite without embarrassment, Dave dressed and bandaged the hurt like an expert. In his adventurous life he had looked after many men who had been shot, and had given first aid to a dozen with broken bones.
Roy winced a little at the pain, but he made no outcry. He was not a baby about suffering. That he could stand as well as another. What shook his nerve was the fear of anticipation, the dread of an impending disaster which his imagination magnified.
"You'd better hurry," he urged two or three times. "Some one might come any minute."
Dave looked at him, a little surprised. "What's the urge, son? We 've got two six-guns with us if anybody gets too neighborly."
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