“A few days,” answered Byrne, “may
work wonders with him.”
The other hesitated.
“I’ll go up and talk with him,”
he said, “and what he wants I’ll do.”
TALK
He was long in getting his answer. The hours
dragged on slowly for Kate and the doctor, for if
Joe Cumberland could hold Dan it was everything to
the girl, and if Barry left at once there might be
some root for the hope which was growing stronger
and stronger every day in the heart of Randall Byrne.
Before evening a not unwelcome diversion broke the
suspense somewhat.
It was the arrival of no less a person than Marshal
Jeff Calkins. His shoulders were humped and his
short legs bowed from continual riding, and his head
was slung far forward on a gaunt neck; so that when
he turned his head from one to another in speaking
it was with a peculiar pendulum motion. The marshal
had a reputation which was strong over three hundred
miles and more of a mountain-desert. This was
strange, for the marshal was a very talkative man,
and talkative men are not popular on the desert; but
it has been discovered that on occasion his six-gun
could speak as rapidly and much more accurately than
his tongue. So Marshal Calkins waxed in favour.
He set the household at ease upon his arrival by announcing
that “they hadn’t nothin’ for him
there.” All he wanted was a place to bunk
in, some chow, and a feed for the horse. His
trail led past the Cumberland Ranch many and many
a dreary mile.
The marshal was a politic man, and he had early in
life discovered that the best way to get along with
any man was to meet him on his own ground. His
opening blast of words at Doctor Byrne was a sample
of his art.
“So you’re a doc, hey? Well, sir,
when I was a kid I had a colt that stuck its foreleg
in a hole and busted it short and when that colt had
to be shot they wasn’t no holdin’ me.
No, sir, I could of cleaned up on the whole family.
And ever since then I’ve had a hankerin’
to be a doc. Something about the idea of cuttin’
into a man that always sort of tickled me. They’s
only one main thing that holds me back—I
don’t like the idea of knifin’ a feller
when he ain’t got a chance to fight back!
That’s me!”
To this Doctor Randall Byrne bowed, rather dazed,
but returned no answer.
“And how’s your patient, doc?” pursued
the irresistible marshal. “How’s
old Joe Cumberland? I remember when me and Joe
used to trot about the range together. I was
sort of a kid then; but think of old Joe bein’
down in bed—sick! Why, I ain’t
never been sick a day in my life. Sick?
I’d laugh myse’f plumb to death if anybody
ever wanted me to go to bed. What’s the
matter with him, anyway?”
“His nerves are a bit shaken about,” responded
the doctor. “To which I might add that
there is superimposed an arterial condition——”
