ullison should
die he knew that he would follow him within a few hours. These men would
take no chances with the delays of the law.

The men at the bunk house had offered more than once to look at Curly's
arm, but the young man declined curtly. The bleeding had stopped, but
there was a throb in it as if someone were twisting a red-hot knife in the
wound. After a time Doctor Brown showed up in the doorway of the men's
quarters.

"Another patient here, they tell me," he grunted in the brusque way that
failed to conceal the kindest of hearts.

Buck nodded toward Flandrau.

"Let's have a look at your arm, young fellow," the doctor ordered, mopping
his bald head with a big bandanna handkerchief.

"What about the boss?" asked Jake presently.

"Mighty sick man, looks like. Tell you more to-morrow morning."

"Do you mean that he--that he may not get well?" Curly pumped out, his
voice not quite steady.

Doctor Brown looked at him curiously. Somehow this boy did not fit the
specifications of the desperado that had been poured into his ears.

"Don't know yet. Won't make any promises." He had been examining the wound
in a businesslike way. "Looks like the bullet's still in there. Have to
give you an anesthetic while I dig it out."

"Nothin' doing," retorted Flandrau. "You round up the pill in there and
I'll stand the grief. When this lead hypodermic jabbed into my arm it
sorter gave me one of them annie-what-d'ye-call-'em--and one's a-plenty
for me."

"It'll hurt," the little man explained.

"Expect I'll find that out. Go to it."

Brown had not been for thirty years carrying a medicine case across the
dusty deserts of the frontier without learning to know men. He made no
further protest but set to work.

Twenty minutes later Curly lay back on the bunk with a sudden faintness.
He was very white about the lips, but he had not once flinched from the
instruments.

The doctor washed his hands and his tools, pulled on his coat, and came
across to the patient.

"Feeling like a fighting cock, are you? Ready to tackle another posse?" he
asked.

"Not quite." The prisoner glanced toward his guards and his voice fell to
a husky whisper. "Say, Doc. Pull Cullison through. Don't let him die."

"Hmp! Do my best, young fellow. Seems to me you're thinking of that pretty
late."

Brown took up his medicine case and went back to the house.

CHAPTER III

AT THE END OF THE ROAD

Curly's wooden face told nothing of wh