That box has cotton and gauze in it . . . don't touch them! I want
everything clean; just open the box and set it where I can get it."
One by one she gave her directions and the man obeyed swiftly and
unquestioningly. He watched her probe the wound, saw her eyes narrow,
knew that she had made her diagnosis. As she washed the ugly hole in
the flesh and made her own bandage Brocky Lane was wincing, his eyes
again open. Both men were watching her now, the same look in each
eager pair of eyes. But until she had done and, with Norton's help,
had made Lane as comfortable as possible upon his crude bed, she gave
no answer to their mute pleading. Then she sat down upon the stone
floor, caught her knees up in her clasped hands, and looked long and
searchingly into Brocky Lane's face. The cowboy struggled with his
muscles and triumphed over them, summoning a sick grin as he muttered:
"You're mighty good to take all this trouble. . . . I'm sure a hundred
times obliged. . . ."
"And," she cut in abruptly, "you mean to tell me that you shot that man
after he had put this hole in you? And then you made him crawl out of
the brush and come to you?"
"I sure did," grunted Brocky. "And if my aim hadn't been sort of bad,
me being all upset this way, I wouldn't have just winged old Moraga
that way, either! When he's all cured up and I'm all well again.
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