"Where's he hurt?" asked Weary, in the repressed tone which only
tragedy can bring into a man's voice, and knelt beside Big
Medicine.
"I dunno--through the lungs, I guess; my sleeve's gitting soppy
right under his shoulder." Big Medicine did not bellow; his voice
was as quiet as Weary's.
Weary looked up briefly at the circle of staring faces. "Pink,
you pile onto Glory and go wire for a doctor. Try Havre first;
you may get one up on the nine o' clock train. If you can't, get
one down on the 'leven-twenty, from Great Falls. Or there's
Benton--anyway, git one. If you could catch MacPherson, do it.
Try him first, and never mind a Havre doctor unless you can't get
MacPherson. I'd rather wait a couple of hours longer, for him.
I'll have a rig--no, you better get a team from Jim. They'll be
fresh, and you can put 'em through. If you kill 'em," he added
grimly, "we can pay for 'em." He had his jack-knife out, and was
already slashing carefully the shirt of Happy Jack, that he might
inspect the wound.
Pink gave a last, wistful look at Happy Jack's face, which seemed
unfamiliar with all the color and all the expression wiped out of
it like that, and turned away. "Come and help me change saddles,
Cal," he said shortly. "Weary's stirrups are too darned long.
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