"You come near here and I'll trim you within an inch of your life," Con
roared anew, shaking his fist menacingly. "I'll trim you the way I did
the fellow who sent me the blue ribbon for my hair. We've got smallpox
here. I'm looking after a chap who is down with it. Get us a doctor and
beef tea and more tar soap and food, but don't you come an inch nearer,
Banty, _don't_. Think of aunt and the people at the ranch. You can't do
any good, and I'll go clean crazy if you expose yourself to this. Oh,
Banty, get out of this, get out of this, or, I tell you, _honest_, I'll
lick you if you don't."
Banty was no coward, but Con looked terrifyingly fierce and in dead
earnest, and the boy's common sense told him that he could far better
serve these stricken shackmen in doing as he was bidden. So after
more explanations and instructions, he mounted and rode away like one
possessed, Con's last words ringing in his ears: "Don't forget _barrels_
of tar soap, and _tons_ of tea. I haven't had a drink of tea for ten
days."
Late that night a young doctor rode up from Kamloops, and in his wake
a professional nurse with supplies of food, medicines, and exquisitely
fresh, clean sheets.
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