"I heard somebody shoot, when we was comin' up from th' depot," someone was saying when Bayard broke in:
"Here's his dad," Clary said, as a fat, wheezing man made his way importantly into the group.
"Uncle, I want to get a room," Bayard said, "to take this here man to so I can wash him up an' look after his arm. He's been shot. I passed Doc on th' road goin' out when I come in, so I'll just try my hand as a veterinary myself. Can you fix me up?"
"All right! Right here! Bring him in. I've got a room; a nice dollar room," the man wheezed as he stumped into the building. "No disturbance, mind, but I've got a room ... dollar room ..."--and the screen door slapped shut behind him.
"He won't die on you, Bruce," the man with a moustache said, straightening, after inspecting the ragged, dirt-filled wound, and laughing lightly. "It just stung him a little. There's a lot of disorderly conduct left in him yet, an' it's a wonder he ain't been ventilated before."
"Yeah.... Well, we'll take him up and look him over," Bayard said, his face serious, and stooped to gather the burden in his arms.
"Not on this trip, thanks. A good sleep and a stiff cussin' out'll help a little I guess. Mebbe he's learnt a lesson an' he may go back home an' behave himself."
He shouldered open the screen door and, led by the wheezing landlord who carried a lamp at a reckless angle in his trembling hand, started clumping up the resounding stairway, while the group that had been about the lamp-post drifted off into the darkness. Only the sorrel horse, Abe, remained, bridle-reins down, one hip slumped, great, intelligent eyes watching occasional figures that passed, ears moving to catch the scattered sounds that went up toward the Arizona stars.
"Now, this is fine, Uncle," Bayard said, as he stood erect and surveyed the lax body he had deposited on the bed.
His great height made the low, tiny room seem lower, smaller, and in the pale lamplight the fat hotel proprietor peered up into his face with little greedy green eyes, chewing briskly with his front teeth, scratching the fringe of red whiskers speculatively.
"Well, Bayard, you're all right," he blurted out, huskily, as if he had reached that decision only after lengthy debate. "Th' room's a dollar, but I'll wait till mornin' as a favor to you. I wouldn't trust most cowboys, but your reputation's gild-edged, fine!"