"GOOD OLD SHORTY!"
Della Wharton had watched from one of the windows of her room in the
hotel. She had seen Lawler and Shorty ride down the street to Warden's
office; she had seen Shorty come out carrying Lawler; and she heard
Shorty's steps on the stairs as he brought his burden up, preceded by
the proprietor.
She was standing in the hall when the proprietor and Shorty reached the
upper landing, and when the proprietor looked inquiringly at her she
silently motioned toward her room, and stood aside as Shorty entered and
placed his limp burden upon the bed. Lawler was unconscious and ghastly
pale.
Della instantly took charge of Lawler. Which means that she set
seriously to work with him, while Shorty stood by, his arms folded over
his huge chest, one hand caressing his chin, grimly watching.
Shorty continued to watch. For many days he stood guard over his
"boss"--a somber, brooding figure, silent, imperturbable. When he moved
it was only to walk slowly up and down the hall, or downstairs to take
his meals. At other times he would stand at the bedside looking down at
Lawler's closed eyes and ashen face; or he would sit on the edge of a
chair and watch him, intently, with stoic calm, his face as
expressionless as a stone image.
Mrs. Lawler came early the next morning--after the doctor had told Della
and Shorty there was a fighting chance for Lawler; and Ruth Hamlin.
Shorty's eyes grew moist as he watched Mrs. Lawler and Ruth as they
stood by the unconscious man; and his voice was low and gruff when,
during the day Mrs. Lawler asked him for particulars.
"That's all there was to it, ma'am," he said in conclusion. "The boss
oughtn't to have busted in that shack like he did, knowin' Antrim was
there--an' givin' the scum a chance to take the first shot at him. But
he done it. An' he done the same thing to Warden--offered him the first
shot. Ma'am, I never heard the beat of it! I've got nerve--as the sayin'
is. But--Lordy!"
And Shorty became silent again.
For three days Lawler remained unconscious. And during that interval
there were no disturbing sounds to agitate the deathlike quiet of the
sickroom. Riders glided into town from various points of the compass and
stepped softly as they moved in the street--whispering or talking in low
tones. The universal topic was the fight, and Lawler's condition. On the
second day of Lawler's unconsciousness a keen-eyed man stepped off the
east-bound train and made his way to the hotel.
"I'm Metcalf of the _News_, in the capital," he told Keller, the
proprietor. And Keller quietly ushered the newspaperman upstairs, where
the latter stood for a long time until Mrs. Lawler opened the door of
the sickroom for him. Metcalf entered, looked down at Lawler, and then
drew Shorty aside where, in a whispered conversation he obtained the
particulars of the fight and the wounding of Lawler. He took the
west-bound train that night.
A pall seemed to have settled over Willets. The atmosphere was tense,
strained. Riders from Caldwell's ranch, from Sigmund's, from
Lester's--and from other ranches came in; and important-looking men from
various sections of the state alighted from the trains at the station
and lingered long in the dingy foyer of the hotel. One of these was
recognized by Keller as McGregor, secretary of the State Central
Committee of Lawler's party. And Keller noted that McGregor wore a
worried look and that he scowled continually.
Willets waited; the riders who came into town waited; it seemed to the
residents of Willets that the whole state waited, with its collective
gaze upon the little room in the hotel where a man lay, fighting for his
life.
Shorty waited--still silent, the somber brooding light in his eyes; his
jaws set a little tighter, his eyes filled with a deeper glow. Shorty
said no word to any man regarding the deadly intention that reigned in
his heart. He merely waited, watching Lawler, grimly determined that if
Lawler died he would keep his promise to "come for" Warden.
But Shorty would not have found Warden in town. On the night of the
shooting Warden had taken the west-bound train, and the next day he was
closeted with the governor and Hatfield--the three of them sitting in
the governor's office, where, their faces pale, though expressing no
regret, they sat and talked of the fight and conjectured over its
probable consequences.
Singleton stayed close to the Two Diamond; and after the second day,
Della Wharton rode to the ranch and sat brooding over the failure of her
plans. When Lawler had been brought into the hotel she had entertained a
hope that the situation might be turned to her advantage. But there had
been something in Ruth Hamlin's clear, direct eyes that had convinced
her of the futility of attempting to poison her mind against Lawler by
referring to her stay in the line cabin with Lawler. She saw faith in
Ruth's eyes--complete, disconcerting; and it had made her feel inferior,
unworthy, cheap, and inconsequential.
On the fourth day Lawler regained consciousness. The doctor had told
them all that the crisis was at hand; that if the fever broke, marking
the end of the delirium which had seized him, he would awaken normal
mentally, though inevitably weak. But if the fever did not break there
would be no hope for him.
Mrs. Lawler, Ruth, and Shorty were in the room with Lawler when he
opened his eyes. For a long time the three stood, breathlessly watching
as Lawler lay, staring in bewilderment at the ceiling, at the walls, and
out of the windows, through which came a soft, subdued light.
Presently Lawler raised his head a trifle, saw them all, and smiled. The
clear light of reason was in his eyes.
"Mother, Ruth, and Shorty," he said, weakly smiling. "I've known for a
long time that you were here. But I couldn't let you know. Mother and
Ruth--and Shorty," he repeated; and then, in a lower voice, that trailed
off into a murmur as he closed his eyes and appeared to be falling
asleep: "Good old Shorty!"
Ruth and Mrs. Lawler were clasped in each other's arms, joy unutterable
in their eyes. It was some time before they turned, to look at Shorty.
The tawny giant was standing near the foot of the bed. His lips were
quivering, his eyes were wet, his whole body seemed to be racked with
emotion that he could not suppress. He was making an heroic effort,
though--an effort that made the cords of his neck stand out lividly;
that swelled his muscles into knotty bunches.
"Damn it!" he growled as he turned his head away from Ruth and Mrs.
Lawler, so that they might not see what was reflected there; "there
ain't no sense of him gettin' mush-headed about it!"