Читать книгу Hands Up! онлайн

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The doctor was drying his hands, half kneeling still at the bucket, half sitting on his heels—a whimsical smile spreading on his face.

"Who is the cowboy philosopher?" he said as he put his towel in his bag on top of his instruments and cotton wool, and snapped it shut. He saw the cigarettes lying in the corner, stretched for one, wet it, and felt for matches.

"They call him Apache Kid," said Scot. "A light, Doc?" and Scot tore off a Chinese match from a block, lit it on his pants, and held it while the sulphur burned.

The doc was looking at me, and Scotty said "Damn!" as his fingers were burnt.

"You've been scrapping!" said the doc, and looked at my battered face, touching it lightly. "Oh I don't think you need anything much. If you like, a little arnica—three parts water, and bathe that jaw."

"This is nothing," I said.

"Nothing by comparison," he agreed and turned. Then he held his head forward and lit the cigarette at Scotty's second match, and blew a cloud. The aroma of the weed filled the place very pleasantly. It seemed like vespers or a benediction. Douglas stirred, opened his eyes. He muttered something.