She had nothing to say while she treated him. Over an alcohol lamp she
heated some water; in a bowl, brought from the adjoining room, she
cleansed the hand thoroughly. Then the application of the final
antiseptic, a bit of absorbent cotton, a winding of surgeon's tape
about a bit of gauze, and the thing was done. Only at the end did she
say:

"It's a peculiar cut . . . not a knife cut, is it?"

"No," he answered humorously. "Did it on a piece of lead. . . . How
much is it, Doctor?"

"Two dollars," she told him, busied with the drying of her own hands.
"Better let me look at it again in the morning if it pains you."

He laid two silver dollars in her palm, hesitated a moment and then
went out.

"She's got the nerve," was his thoughtful estimate as he went to his
corner table in the dining-room. "But I don't believe she is going to
last long in San Juan. . . . Funny she should come to a place like
this, anyhow. . . . Wonder what the V stands for?"

At any rate the hand had been skilfully treated and bandaged; he nodded
at it approvingly. Then, with his meal set before him, he divided his
thoughts pretty evenly between the girl and the recent shooting at the
Casa Blanca. The sense was strong upon him as it had been many a time
that before very long either Rod Norton or Jim Galloway would lie as
the sheepman from Las Palmas was lying, while the other might watch his