"Gallaher! I hear him groanin' and cryin' above the n'ise of the fiddlin', You'll be givin' him a dhrop of something to aise his sufferin', Dochter?"
"Yes, Jack."
"The fut av him is crooshed bad, they say."
"Yes. I'm afraid it'll have to come off, poor fellow!"
"Ah-h-h! Don't say it, Dochter. Save the lad's fut to him, if you have to cut off his head!"
"One would be about as bad as the other, I'm afraid, Jack."
"You know best. Poor Gallaher! You'll be back soon?"
"In a little while."
Jack waved him on with his cigar, grandly expressive of his sufficiency to meet any exigency during his absence. Dr. Hall laid a diagonal course across the track for his hospital car, which stood on a short spur that Bill Chambers had thrown out among some cottonwood trees to accommodate it. The dance was becoming more noisy every minute, with much cowboy yelping and deep railroad laughter, the delighted shrill squeal of the ladies splitting the heavier noise like little red bursts of flame. But it was all so good humored and carelessly happy there did not appear to be a spark of trouble for some hot breath to blow into a blaze.
Another quadrille had begun, a cowboy caller standing on a kerosene barrel high above the dancers, bringing gales and shrieks of laughter by his frills and comical embellishments, even mixing them up in the figures by applying the terms of his trade to the movements of the dance. It seemed such an honest hour of enjoyment that Hall paused a moment to watch them. The dust danced
