The Quirt by B. M. Bower

Author:B. M. Bower [Bower, B. M.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: General, Westerns, Fiction
ISBN: 9781406557961
Publisher: Dodo Press
Published: 2007-08-29T23:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWELVE. THE QUIRT PARRIES THE FIRST BLOW

A car with dimmed lights stood in front of the Quirt cabin when Swan drove around the last low ridge and down to the gate. The rattle of the wagon must have been heard, for the door opened suddenly and Frank stood revealed in the yellow light of the kerosene lamp on the table within. Behind Frank, Lorraine saw Jim and Sorry standing in their shirt sleeves looking out into the dark. Another, shorter figure she glimpsed as Frank and the two men stepped out and came striding hastily toward them. Lorraine jumped out and ran to meet them, hoping and fearing that her hope was foolish. That car might easily be only Bob Warfield on some errand of no importance. Still, she hoped.

“That you, Raine? Where's Brit? What's all this about Brit being hurt? A doctor from Shoshone——”

“Adoctor ? Oh, did a doctor come, then? Oh, help Swan carry dad in! I'm—oh, I'm afraid he's awfully injured!”

“Yes-s—but how'n hell did a doctor know about it?” Sorry, the silent, blurted unexpectedly.

“Oh,—never mind—but get dad in. I'll——” She ran past them without finishing her sentence and burst incoherently into the presence of an extremely calm little man with gray whiskers and dust on the shoulders of his coat. These details, I may add, formed the sum of Lorraine's first impression of him.

“Well! Well!” he remonstrated with a professional briskness, when she nearly bowled him over. “We seem to be in something of a hurry! Is this the patient I was sent to examine?”

“No!” Lorraine flashed impatiently over her shoulder as she rushed into her own room and began turning down the covers. “It's dad, of course—and you'd better get your coat off and get ready to go to work, because I expect he's just one mass of broken bones!”

The doctor smiled behind his whiskers and returned to the doorway to direct the carrying in of his patient. His sharp eyes went immediately to Brit's face, pallid under the leathery tan, his fingers went to Brit's hairy, corded wrist. The doctor smiled no more that evening.

“No, he is not a mass of broken bones, I am happy to say,” he reported gravely to Lorraine afterwards. “He has a sufficient number, however. The left scapula is fractured, likewise the clavicle, and there is a compound fracture of the femur. There is some injury to the head, the exact extent of which I cannot as yet determine. He should be removed to a hospital, unless you are prepared to have a nurse here for some time, or to assume the burden of a long and tedious illness.” He looked at her thoughtfully. “The journey to Shoshone would be a considerable strain on the patient in his present condition. He has a splendid amount of constitutional vitality, or he would scarcely have survived his injuries so long without medical attendance. Can you tell me just how the accident occurred?”

“Excuse me, doctor—and Miss,” Swan diffidently interrupted. “I could ask you to take a look on my shoulder, if you please.

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