Now that weakness was plumb fatal to him, for right there and then he cracked his plate with his missus.  Yes, sir, he tore his shirt-waist proper.  The squaw straightened up and give him a look—­oh, what a look!

“Waugh!” she sniffed.  “Injun heap big squaw!” And with that she swished out of the office and left him flat.  Yes, sir, she just blew him on the spot.

I s’pose Mike would have got that tooth somehow—­he’s a perseverin’ party—­only that I happened to notice something queer and called him off.

“Here, wait a minute,” said I, and I loosened him from the man’s chest.  Mike was so engorsed in the pursuit of his profession that he was astraddle of his patient’s wishbone, gougin’ away like a quartz miner.  “Take your elbow out of his mouth and lemme talk to him a minute.”  When the savage had got his features together, I said to him, “How you catch um bump, hey?” And I pointed to his jaw.

“Bzz-zz-zz!” said he.

I turned to Doctor Butters.  “Hornet!” I declared.

When Mike had sized up the bee-sting he admitted that my diagnosis was prob’ly correct.  “That’s the trouble with these patients,” he complained.  “They don’t take you into their confidence.  Just the same, I’m goin’ to attend to his teeth, for there’s no tellin’ when I’ll catch another one.”

“What’s wrong with his teeth?” I questioned.  “They look good to me, except they’re wore down from eatin’ camus.  If he was a horse I’d judge him to be about a ten-year-old.”

“You never can tell by lookin’ at teeth what’s inside of ’em.  Anyhow, a nice fillin’ would set ’em off.  I ain’t tried no fillin’s yet.  Gimme that Burley drill.”

I wheeled out a kind of sewing-machine; then I pedaled it while Mike dug into that Injun’s hangin’ wall like he had a round of holes to shoot before quittin’-time.  This here was more in my line, bein’ a hard-rock miner myself, and we certainly loaded a fine prospect of gold into that native’s bi-cuspidor.  We took his front teeth because they was the easiest to get at.

It was just like I said, this Injun’s white keys was wore off short and looked like they needed something, so we laid ourselves out to supply the want.  We didn’t exactly fill them teeth; we merely riveted on a sort of a plowshare—­a gold sod-cutter about the size of your finger-nail.  How Mike got it to stick I don’t know, but he must have picked up quite a number of dentist’s tricks before I came.  Anyhow, there she hung like a brass name-plate, and she didn’t wabble hardly at all.  You’d of been surprised to see what a difference it made in that redskin’s looks.

We let our patient up finally and put a lookin’-glass in his hand.  At first he didn’t know just what to make of that fillin’; but when he seen it was real gold a grin broke over his face, his chest swelled up, and he walked out of the office and across the street to a novelty store.  In a minute out he came with a little round lookin’-glass and a piece of buckskin, and the last we seen of him he was hikin’ down the street, grinnin’ into that mirror as happy as a child and polishin’ that tusk like it had started to rust.