"Here—we'll sling your arm in that business you wore around your neck," Dr. Hall said to the patient, picking up the bright-figured silk article from the floor. "You'd better cut out the booze till this thing heals, or you're likely to lose your hand. There's no doctor in Simrall they tell me. I'd advise you to hop the first train to Dodge and have it attended to there."
Not a word out of the glum, ill-favored mouth, not a shake of the head, not a shading of good will or gratitude in the savage, slow-blinking eyes. But there was a new alertness about the man which Dr. Hall was not slow to see. He was listening intently to the noise of scraping feet on the hard cinder road before the door.
Hall thought there was a movement as of men collecting at that point. He concluded that they had recovered their guns and their courage, and were waiting for Sandiver to come out. The fellow's pistol lay on a chair over against the wall, hidden by his dusty sombrero, where Hall had thrown them when he followed the jerries in with their burden. Hall went and got them, giving the hat to its owner, retaining the gun, not quite decided what to do with it, instrument fit for only a coward's hand, he thought.
While Hall was deliberating over what to do with the gun, somebody knocked on the door, striking it in rude and insistent demand with something hard, very likely the butt of a gun, the doctor believed. Sandiver sat a little straighter in the chair, moving one foot in his stealthy, sneaking way from the rest, as if he calculated on making a spring, recovering his gun and fighting his way out.
Dr. Hall broke the pistol, throwing the shells with a clatter to the floor. The summons sounded on the door
