"Yes, there's a doctor," said he, "a mighty good one. He went by here a little while ago. Name's Dr. Rankin. I'll rustle him out for you. Oh, you Pete!" he shouted into the interior of the building. A moment's shuffling about preceded the appearance of a negro boy of twelve or fourteen. "Yes, sah." "Go find Dr. Rankin and bring him here right away. Tell him a gentleman wants him." "You've got a mighty sudden sort of camp here," said I, as we settled ourselves to wait. "Three months ago I went through here, and there was practically nothing." "Looks to be a thousand years, though," agreed the hotel man. "Where you been?" "Oh, just prospecting," I replied vaguely. "Strike it?" "Just fair," I evaded; "not rich enough to keep me from coming back, you see. Any finds here?" "The diggings are rich as mud," replied the hotel man dispassionately. "It's a prosperous camp all right." "You don't 'wash' yourself?" I asked. "Not I! I make more than my 'ounce a day' right here." He jerked his thumb at his hotel. "A good many 'loafers,'" I suggested. He looked at me steadily, hesitated for a moment, then evidently changed his mind. "Quite a few," he agreed. At this moment the negro boy appeared, closely followed by the man with the blue coat and white beaver hat whom I had taken for an eccentric gambler. This man walked slowly up to face me. "Well, sir?" he demanded. "I am told I can be of service. In what way?" His piercing black eye held mine with a certain high arrogance. "Professionally, doctor," I replied. "A friend of mine is lying badly hurt in a nearby hut." For a barely appreciable instant his eye held mine after I had ceased speaking, as though he was appraising me. Then he bowed with old-fashioned courtesy. "At your service, sir," said he. "Pete, you black rascal, get my bag, and get it quick." The little negro, who had stood by obviously worshipping, broke into a grin and darted into the hotel, almost instantly reappearing with a regulation professional satchel. "At your service, sir," repeated Dr. Rankin. We took our stately progress up the street, through the deep red dust. The hot sun glared down upon us, reflecting from the surface of the earth in suffocating heat. Hard as I was, I flushed and perspired. The doctor never turned a hair. As we passed one of the saloons a huge, hairy man lurched out, nearly colliding with us. He was not drunk, but he was well flushed with drink. His mood was evidently ugly, for he dropped his hand to the butt of his revolver, and growled something truculent at me, glaring through bloodshot eyes. Dr. Rankin, who had stepped back to avoid collision, spoke up: "Malone," said he, "I told you a week ago that you have to stop drinking or come to me. I repeat it." He turned his keen black eyes upon the big man, and stepped forward. The big man muttered something and moved aside.