in his arm; Peck getting dinner ready. The biscuits of the morning had burned up in the oven, and Peck was concentrating his talents on the preparation of a new batch.
"How's your arm?" Peck inquired, turning suddenly from his mixture, hands in the flour, as if it had just struck him to inquire into the misfortunes of a man whose part in that historic encounter had been so unheroic and small.
"Pretty good, Peck."
"You look kind of white around the gills, Rawlins, you'd better take it kind of easy for a while. Leave 'em to me if they come back."
"I'll nearly have to, old man."
"Yeah, that'll be all right. Doctor say he'll have to take any bones out of you, or anything?"
"No, he says he can save my arm. Did you help skin the sheep?"
"Yeah. Me and the old lady thought we might as well save them hides—they're worth six bits apiece. I'll order Tippie to bury them dead ones when he comes, and kill off the cripples and skin 'em. Me and the old lady"
"Did you find that bullet in your pocket, Peck?"
Peck looked around again, leaning on his long bony arms, hands flat in the pan. His face was reproachful, his animated countenance under a cloud of displeasure. But he brightened up in a moment, making the dry, croaking sound in his throat that stood him for a laugh.
"It was there, all right, Rawlins," he confessed. "It was smashed as flat on one end as if it'd struck a rock."
