The
shirt was clotted with blood; so were the mattress under him and
the floor.
"'Shot?' I asked of the man nearest me.
"'Yes.'
"I knelt down on the floor beside him and opened his shirt. The wound
was just above the heart; the bullet had struck a rib, missed the lungs,
and gone out at the back. Dangerows, but not necessarily fatal.
"The man turned his head and opened his eyes. He was a stockily built
fellow of thirty with a clean-shaven face.
"'Is that you, "Doc"?'
"'Yes, where does it hurt?'
"'"Doc" Shipman--who used to be at Bellevue five or six years ago?'
"'Yes--now tell me where the pain is.'
"'Let me look at you. Yes--that's him. That's the "Doc," boys. Where
does it hurt?--Oh, all around here--back worst'--and he passed his hand
over his side.
"I looked him over again, put in a few stitches, and fixed him up for
the night. When I had finished he said:
"'Come closer, "Doc"; am I going to die?'
"'No, not this time; you'll pull through. Close shave, but you'll
weather it.
Pages:
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168