Joel sprang to the open front. "It's Dell, and there's a buckboard
following," he whispered. A moment later the vehicle rattled up, led by
the irrepressible Dell, as if in charge of a battery of artillery. "This
is the place, Doctor," said he, as if dismissing a troop from
cavalry drill.

The physician proved to be a typical frontier doctor. He had left
Culbertson that morning, was delayed in securing a relay team at the
ford on the Republican, and still had traveled ninety miles since
sunrise. "If it wasn't for six-shooters in this country," said he, as he
entered the tent, "we doctors would have little to do. Your men with the
herd told me how the accident happened." Then to Forrest, "Son, think
it'll ever happen again?"

"Yes, unless you can cure a fool from lending his pistol," replied
Forrest.

"Certainly. I've noticed that similarity in all gunshot wounds: they
usually offer good excuses. It's healing in its nature," commented the
doctor, as he began removing the bandages. As the examination proceeded,
there was a running comment maintained, bordering on the humorous.

"If there's no extra charge," said Forrest, "I wish you would allow the
boys to see the wounds. You might also deliver a short lecture on the
danger of carrying the hammer of a pistol on a loaded cartridge. The
boys are young and may take the lesson seriously, but you're wasting
good breath on me. Call the boys--I'm an old dog."

"Gunshot wounds are the only crop in this country," continued the
doctor, ignoring the request, "not affected by the drouth. There's an