The
Colonel was calling the hospital.
"... gunshot wounds," he was saying. "One man in the chest and the other
in the leg, both with a .45 pistol. And you'd better send a doctor who's
qualified to write a death certificate; there was a woman killed,
too.... Yes, certainly; the State Police have been notified."
"Dis ain' so bad, Cunnel," Sergeant Williamson raised his head to say.
"Ah's seen men shot wuss'n dis dat was ma'ked 'Duty' inside a month,
suh."
Colonel Hampton nodded. "Well, get him fixed up as best you can, till
the ambulance gets here. And there's whiskey and glasses on that table,
over there. Better give Doctor Vehrner a drink." He looked at T.
Barnwell Powell, still frozen to his chair, aghast at the carnage around
him. "And give Mr. Powell a drink, too. He needs one."
He did, indeed. Colonel Hampton could have used a drink, too; the
library looked like beef-day at an Indian agency. But he was still
Slaughterhouse Hampton, and consequently could not afford to exhibit
queasiness.
It was then, for the first time since the business had started that he
felt the presence of Dearest.
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