Meantime Shorty had found the doctor in a small room back of the bar of the "Frank" saloon, seated at a table surrounded by six or eight men with a deck of cards in his hand, deep in a game of "Black Jack" for which he held the pot. Opposite him sat "Mexico," the type of a Western professional gambler and desperado, his swarthy face adorned with a pair of sweeping mustaches, its expressionless appearance relieved by a pair of glittering black eyes. For nine hours the doctor had not moved from his chair, playing any who might care to chip in to the game. For the last hour he had been winning heavily, till, at his right hand, he had a heap of new crisp bills lately from the Bank of Montreal, having made but a slight pause in the grimy hands of the railroad men on their way to his. At his left hand stood a glass of water with which, from time to time, he moistened his lips. His face was like a mask of death, colourless and empty of feeling, except that in the black eyes, deep-set and blood-shot, there gleamed a light as of madness. The room was full of men watching the game and waiting an opportunity to get into it.
"The doctor's wanted!" shouted Shorty, bursting into the room. Not a head turned, and but for a slight flicker of impatience the doctor remained unmoved.
"There's a man dyin' out here from No. 2," continued Shorty.
"Let him go to hell, then, an' you go, too!" growled out "Mexico," who had for the greater part of the evening been playing in bad luck, but who had refused to quit, waiting for the turn.
"He's out here in the snow," continued Shorty, "an' he's chokin' to death, an' we don't know what to do with him."
The doctor looked up from his hand. "Put him in somewhere. I'll be along soon."
"They won't let him in anywhere. They're all afraid, an' he's chokin' to death."
The doctor turned down his cards. "What do you say? Choking to death?" He passed his hand over his eyes. His professional instinct began to assert itself.
"Yes," continued Shorty. "There's somethin' wrong with him; he can't swallow. An' we can't git him in."
The doctor pushed back his chair. "Here, men," he said, "I'm going to quit."
A chorus of oaths and imprecations greeted his proposal.
"You can't quit now!" growled "Mexico" fiercely, like a dog that is about to lose a bone. "You've got to give us a chance."
"Well, here's your chance then," cried the doctor. "Let's stop this tiddle-de-winks game. You can't have up more than a hundred apiece. I'll put my pile against your bets, there's three thousand if there's a dollar, and quit. Come on."
The greatness of the opportunity staggered them.
Then they flung themselves upon it. "It's a go!" "Come on!"
"Give us your cards!" Quickly the cards were dealt. One by one the men made up their hands. The crowd about crushed in upon them in breathless excitement. Never had there been seen in that camp so reckless a stake.
"Now, then, show down," growled "Mexico."
The doctor laid down his cards face up. One by one they compared their hands. He had won. With an oath "Mexico" made a grab for the pile, reaching for his hip at the same time with the other hand, but the doctor was first, and before anyone could move or speak "Mexico" was lying in the corner, his toes quivering above his upturned chair.
"Look after the brute, someone. He doesn't understand the game," said the doctor with cool contempt, crumpling up the bills and pushing them down into his pocket. "Where's your sick man?"
"This way, doctor," said Shorty, hurrying out toward the sleigh.
The doctor passed him on a run.
"What does this mean?" he cried. "Why haven't you got him inside somewhere?"
"That's what I say, docthor," answered Tommy, "but the bloody haythen wudn't let him in."
"How's this, Swipey?" said the doctor sternly, turning to the saloon-keeper, who still stood in the door.
"He's not comin' in here. How do I know what he's got?"
"I'll take that responsibility," replied the doctor. "In he goes.
Here, take him up on the robe, men. Steady, now."
Swipey hesitated a moment, but before he could make up his mind what to do, the doctor was leading his men with their burden past the bar door.
"Show us a room at the back, Swipey, upstairs. It must be warm.
Be quick about it."
Swearing deep oaths, Swipey led the way. "It must be warm, eh?
Want a bath in it next, I suppose."
"This will do," said the doctor when they reached the room. "Now, clear out, men. I want one of you. You'll do, Shorty." Without hurry, but with incredible speed and dexterity, he had the man undressed and in bed between heated blankets. "Now, hold the light. We'll take a look at his throat. Heavens above! Stay here, Shorty, till I come back."
He ran downstairs, and, bareheaded as he was, plunged through the storm to his office, returning in a few minutes with his medical bag and two hot-water bottles.
"We're too late, Shorty, I fear, but we'll do our best. Get these full of hot water for me."
"What is it, Doctor?" cried Shorty anxiously.
"Go quick!" The doctor's voice was so sharp and stern that before Shorty knew, he was half way downstairs with the hot-water bottles.
With swift, deft movements the doctor went about his work.
"Ah, that's right. Now, Shorty, hold the light again. Now the antitoxin. It's hours, days, too late, perhaps, hardly any use with this mixed infection, but we'll try it. There. Now we'll touch up his heart. Poor chap, he can't swallow. We'll give it to him this way." Again he filled his syringe from another bottle and gave the sick man a second injection. "There. That ought to help him a bit. Now, what fool sent a man in this condition twenty miles through a storm like this? Shorty, don't let that teamster go away without seeing me. Have him in here within an hour."
Shorty turned to go. "Wait. Do you know this man's name?"
"I heard Tommy call him Scotty Anderson. He's from the old country, I think."
"All right. Now, go and get the teamster."
