owner of the store. "Left my bag at home, Tom —mind if I borrow what I need?"
"Don't stock doctor's things, but help yourself."
Church wandered into the store proper, returned with a paring knife, a thin chisel and long-jawed pliers. Rosemarie returned with the water and pieces she had stripped from her petticoat.
"Billy," Church said then, "he may come to with a roar. Think you can hold him down?"
"I'll sure try."
"And if Billy can't hold him, will somebody else stand by to conk him out again?"
"I'll do that," Mulchay volunteered. "The laddie can trust me to bash him gently."
Church bent to his work without further ado, and Malcolm Lord, feeling suddenly in need of air, went out of the place. Under the pain of the probing knife, then the chisel, Buchanan began to stir. Church worked the slug loose, and Buchanan groaned deep in his chest. The pliers went into the wound, got purchase on the lead bullet, and when Church yanked it free Buchanan rose to a wide-eyed sitting position. He roared, as the doctor had predicted, and his left hand clamped around the doctor's windpipe —all in the pure instinct of self-preser vation. But Church was in great danger of being stran gled, what with Mulchay's blows with the ax handle only convincing Buchanan's brain that it was fighting for life. It was Rosemarie, yanking the handle from Angus's fingers, who supplied the anesthesia. Buchanan's body went limp and his chin fell against his bare chest.
"Well, thank you," Church said when he could speak again. "That boy can grab hold good." He was surprised to see the girl break out into tears, and with a shrug he went about blocking the fresh spurt of blood and bandaging the wound. He gave the thigh his attention then, strip ping the trouser leg-away, and made the happy discovery that the bullet had forced its own way out of the flesh. "Look at the leg on the fellow, would you?" he asked admiringly. "I tell you, boys, that is sinew. Make awful tough eating, this horse."
"Damn it, Doc," Macintosh said, "there's a female present. And an unmarried one, to boot."
"It is a manly leg," Rosemarie said, brushing the tears from her eyes. "And nothing to cause me embarrassment, married or no."
"Not very fond of my patient, are you?" Church teased.
"No, not very."
"Figure to nurse him?"
"Yes."
"Well, feed him when he comes to. Underdone beef, if you can. And make him take some whisky —help tide him over any nerve shock. Matter of fact, think I'll pre scribe some of that for myself. The Glasgow still doing business?"
"My treat," Mulchay offered. "Mulchay's treat all around." He put an arm around the shoulders of his two cronies, looked back for a moment to the girl. "Be back soon," he told her. "We'll discuss the situation when the lad's himself again." The old men went out, leaving Billy Neale behind.
"What is it between you and him?" the cowboy asked.
"I don't know, Billy," Rosemarie answered.
"Kind of acting like a calf, ain't you?"
"Am I?"
"You sure are! And you sure can't be serious —not seri ous about taking up with some homeless drifter!"
"He has a home. And a job."
"Yeah, some home! Up in the Negras. You got any idea what it's like up there?"
"Lonely," she said.
"Not for a wildcat, it ain't. Animals like it up there."
"Meaning Tom is no better than an animal?"
"Damn it all —I don't relish talking about a man when he's out and under like he is. But I got to talk sense into you before it's too late."
"Maybe you're jumping to conclusions, Billy. He told me once tonight he wasn't interested in taking me along."
"You mean you asked him? Him?"
"Ay. And he turned me down."
"Well, try me then! I wouldn't turn you down."
"That's very sweet of you, Billy."
"Is it the mountains? You figure you'd like to spend some time up there? I'll live with you anywheres, Rosemarie ."
The girl laughed at his earnestness.
"So I'm funny. All I am is funny."
"No, no, no! You're a sweet, goodhearted fellow. And tonight I saw just how
"Don't stock doctor's things, but help yourself."
Church wandered into the store proper, returned with a paring knife, a thin chisel and long-jawed pliers. Rosemarie returned with the water and pieces she had stripped from her petticoat.
"Billy," Church said then, "he may come to with a roar. Think you can hold him down?"
"I'll sure try."
"And if Billy can't hold him, will somebody else stand by to conk him out again?"
"I'll do that," Mulchay volunteered. "The laddie can trust me to bash him gently."
Church bent to his work without further ado, and Malcolm Lord, feeling suddenly in need of air, went out of the place. Under the pain of the probing knife, then the chisel, Buchanan began to stir. Church worked the slug loose, and Buchanan groaned deep in his chest. The pliers went into the wound, got purchase on the lead bullet, and when Church yanked it free Buchanan rose to a wide-eyed sitting position. He roared, as the doctor had predicted, and his left hand clamped around the doctor's windpipe —all in the pure instinct of self-preser vation. But Church was in great danger of being stran gled, what with Mulchay's blows with the ax handle only convincing Buchanan's brain that it was fighting for life. It was Rosemarie, yanking the handle from Angus's fingers, who supplied the anesthesia. Buchanan's body went limp and his chin fell against his bare chest.
"Well, thank you," Church said when he could speak again. "That boy can grab hold good." He was surprised to see the girl break out into tears, and with a shrug he went about blocking the fresh spurt of blood and bandaging the wound. He gave the thigh his attention then, strip ping the trouser leg-away, and made the happy discovery that the bullet had forced its own way out of the flesh. "Look at the leg on the fellow, would you?" he asked admiringly. "I tell you, boys, that is sinew. Make awful tough eating, this horse."
"Damn it, Doc," Macintosh said, "there's a female present. And an unmarried one, to boot."
"It is a manly leg," Rosemarie said, brushing the tears from her eyes. "And nothing to cause me embarrassment, married or no."
"Not very fond of my patient, are you?" Church teased.
"No, not very."
"Figure to nurse him?"
"Yes."
"Well, feed him when he comes to. Underdone beef, if you can. And make him take some whisky —help tide him over any nerve shock. Matter of fact, think I'll pre scribe some of that for myself. The Glasgow still doing business?"
"My treat," Mulchay offered. "Mulchay's treat all around." He put an arm around the shoulders of his two cronies, looked back for a moment to the girl. "Be back soon," he told her. "We'll discuss the situation when the lad's himself again." The old men went out, leaving Billy Neale behind.
"What is it between you and him?" the cowboy asked.
"I don't know, Billy," Rosemarie answered.
"Kind of acting like a calf, ain't you?"
"Am I?"
"You sure are! And you sure can't be serious —not seri ous about taking up with some homeless drifter!"
"He has a home. And a job."
"Yeah, some home! Up in the Negras. You got any idea what it's like up there?"
"Lonely," she said.
"Not for a wildcat, it ain't. Animals like it up there."
"Meaning Tom is no better than an animal?"
"Damn it all —I don't relish talking about a man when he's out and under like he is. But I got to talk sense into you before it's too late."
"Maybe you're jumping to conclusions, Billy. He told me once tonight he wasn't interested in taking me along."
"You mean you asked him? Him?"
"Ay. And he turned me down."
"Well, try me then! I wouldn't turn you down."
"That's very sweet of you, Billy."
"Is it the mountains? You figure you'd like to spend some time up there? I'll live with you anywheres, Rosemarie ."
The girl laughed at his earnestness.
"So I'm funny. All I am is funny."
"No, no, no! You're a sweet, goodhearted fellow. And tonight I saw just how
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