Billy Winch cursed him into silence. For Winch held himself as good a physician and surgeon as any, having served in the veterinary capacity for a score of years and having a natural aptitude for treating bad cuts and gun wounds. Further, he loved this Timber-Wolf; and beyond, with all his heart, Billy Winch distrusted and hated the breed of doctors. His stump of a leg he attributed to the profound ignorance drawn by the medical and surgical profession from their books of theories. "You ain't even bad hurt, Timber," he growled, as though disappointed and angered that he had been tricked into a show of affection and fright. His look accused Standing of having wilfully deceived him. "Must have been just the shock, what we call the impack, that knocked you over.... Oh, lie still, can't you!" But Bruce Standing gave him no heed, and continued in his attempt to draw himself up. While Billy Winch sat on the floor and looked up at him, the bigger man got slowly to his feet and stood leaning against the door. "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. "_She_ did that for you? That kid of a girl?" "Yes, damn her," muttered Timber-Wolf angrily, as Billy Winch's fingers, already scarlet, touched the wound. "Turned my back a second ... she ought to have shot me dead ... either a rotten shot or in an awful hurry...." "Or scared to death!" Winch's contempt was enormous. "That's the kind that does the most harm, the scared-stiffs that's always shooting the wrong time and the wrong man."