"Help me get him to town and
to a bed."
It was useless to attempt to carry that great, loose-limbed body. They
brought the buckboard perilously through the shrubbery and then
managed, with infinite labor, to lift Bull Hunter into it. With Pete
Reeve supporting the head of the wounded man and cautioning them to
drive gently, they managed the journey to the town as softly as
possible. At the hotel a strong-armed cortege bore Bull to a bed, and
they carried him reverently. Had his senses been with him he would
have wondered greatly; and had his uncle, or his uncle's sons, been
there, they would surely have laughed uproariously.
In the hotel room Pete Reeve took command at once. "He's too big to
die," he told the dubious doctor. "He's got to live. And the minute
you say he can't, out you go and another doc comes in. Now do
your work."
The doctor, haunted by the deep, fiery eyes of the gunfighter, stepped
into the room to minister to his patient. He had a vague feeling that,
if Bull Hunter died, Pete Reeve would blame him for lack of care.
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