" All he wanted was a place to bunk in,
some chow, and a feed for the horse. His trail led past the Cumberland
Ranch many and many a dreary mile.
The marshal was a politic man, and he had early in life discovered that
the best way to get along with any man was to meet him on his own
ground. His opening blast of words at Doctor Byrne was a sample of his
art.
"So you're a doc, hey? Well, sir, when I was a kid I had a colt that
stuck its foreleg in a hole and busted it short and when that colt had
to be shot they wasn't no holdin' me. No, sir, I could of cleaned up on
the whole family. And ever since then I've had a hankerin' to be a doc.
Something about the idea of cuttin' into a man that always sort of
tickled me. They's only one main thing that holds me back--I don't like
the idea of knifin' a feller when he ain't got a chance to fight back!
That's me!"
To this Doctor Randall Byrne bowed, rather dazed, but returned no
answer.
"And how's your patient, doc?" pursued the irresistible marshal. "How's
old Joe Cumberland? I remember when me and Joe used to trot about the
range together. I was sort of a kid then; but think of old Joe bein'
down in bed--sick! Why, I ain't never been sick a day in my life. Sick?
I'd laugh myse'f plumb to death if anybody ever wanted me to go to bed.
What's the matter with him, anyway?"
"His nerves are a bit shaken about," responded the doctor. "To which I
might add that there is superimposed an arterial condition----"
"Cut it short, Doc," cried the marshal goodnaturedly.
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