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"Anyway, get over on the bed and lay down and I'll look you over. You're bleeding like a stuck pig. And you're as white as a clean rag."

Bruce Standing's face was already haggard and drawn, his mouth hard with pain. Yet he ignored Winch's command, and walked slowly, forcing his steps to be steady, to the one chair in the room. He sat down upon it heavily, straddling it as though it were a horse, facing the chair-back, and thus leaving his own back clearly proffered for Winch's inspection. Winch got up and hopped to him, railing at him the while for not lying down and obeying orders.

"Help me get my coat off," commanded Timber-Wolf curtly. "Then you can dig around and find out what we're up against."

Men were still at the window, peering in.

"Scatter!" commanded Winch, waving the rifle at them. "And tell our boys to come here. Dick Ross and Charley Peters. They ain't far."

Reluctantly the onlookers withdrew, some two or three of them to pause in the shadows when once out of eye-shot, and look back. But from now on Winch disregarded them. He helped the wounded man off with his coat, yanked his shirts out from his belted waist, tore cloth freely when it was in his way, and thus uncovered the wound.