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irregularity and concluded there was a chance his fear of a fracture might be misplaced. Gambling upon this proving the case, he gave his attention to the jaw. In addition to being badly swollen and bruised where the punch had landed, his gently questing fingers felt the crepitus caused by the broken section of the bone grating against one another. The extreme depth of the coma was further indicated by the complete lack of response from Eckland to thetreatment. However, an examination of the mouth proved the tongue was not cut. Nor was the extent of the damage so severe, as might have happened if the injury was caused by a bullet, that it was liable to slip back and impede breathing.
    For all the positive results acquired by his scrutiny, Doc did not for a moment consider he was faced with a sinecure!
    The Texan was engaged in the kind of a situation where, lacking the aids to diagnosis which would be available to a later generation, a doctor in the late 1870s—particularly on the great range country west of the Mississippi River—had to rely upon his knowledge, judgment and instincts!
    While he had not qualified, Doc had to reach a decision regarding treatment upon which the life of another human being could depend!
    If he was correct about the extent of the damage caused by the barrel of the pistol, Doc could bandage the broken jaw. To do so, should the skull be fractured, would apply a pressure and compression to the former injury, no matter how carefully he applied the bandages, which could prove fatal. On the other hand, if left unsecured, the journey to the nearest town would offer opportunities for further damage to the jaw which could prove just as fatal as an incorrect summation regarding the condition of the skull.
    A lesser man might have called upon Tract, as Eckland’s friend, Waco, or the passengers of the stagecoach, for an opinion!
    That was not the way in which the late Eldridge Jason Leroy, M.D., had taught his son to behave!
    The decision was for Doc and Doc alone to take!
    â€œDamn it, Sir John, why couldn’t you have been a storekeeper instead of a doctor?” the slender Texan mused wryly, employing the sobriquet by which his father had been known to differentiate between himself, “Lil Doc.” Opening the black bag, he lifted out a roll of wide white bandage and went on, “Life would surely be more easy for me if you had!”

Chapter 5
THAT MAN TRIED TO KILL ME
    â€œI’ VE COME UP ON YOU AT LAST, YOU MURDERING son-of-a-bitch!”
    Hearing the words as he was dismounting from his big and, at present, hard ridden bay gelding at four-thirty in the afternoon, Major Bertram Mosehan looked around. What he saw gave warning that, even if such provocative words were ever intended to be part of rough cowhand horseplay, their current intent was in deadly earnest. For all that, he was at a loss to decide why they were being directed his way.
    Considering to whom it was being uttered, there were many people in Arizona Territory and elsewhere throughout the United States of America who would have thought the words extremely ill-advised!
    Tall, wide shouldered, in his early forties, Mosehan bore himself with the straight backed posture of a professional soldier. Moderately handsome, sun bronzed, his mouth was firm and shielded by a close clipped brown moustache. A touch of gray at his temples gave a maturity to a strong countenance which indicated he was not a man with whom it would be safe to trifle. He had on a tan Stetson with a “Montana crown” peak, a waist length brown leather jacket, dark green shirt, blue bandana and yellowish brown Nankeen trousers tucked carefully into the tops of black Hessian leg riding boots. About his waist was a broad black belt with a United States Cavalry buckle. A Colt Cavalry Model Peacemaker was butt forward in its high riding, flap topped military holster on the right side. Such a rig offered excellent protection from the elements