CHAPTER XXII—LOOKING FOR TROUBLE

Before night the Arrow outfit, led by Bothwell, the range boss, came

into the ranchhouse. For the news had reached them—after the manner in

which all news travels in the cow-country—by word of mouth—and they

had come in—all those who could be spared—to determine the truth of

the rumor.

There were fifteen of them, rugged, capable-looking fellows; and

despite the doctor’s objections, they filed singly, though

noiselessly, into Taylor’s room and silently looked down upon their

“boss.” Marion, watching them from a corner of the room, noted their

quick gulps of pity, their grim faces, the savage gleams that came

into their eyes, and she knew they were thinking of vengeance upon the

men who had wrought the injury to their employer.

Bothwell—big, grim, and deliberate of manner—said nothing as he looked

down into his chief’s face. But later, outside the house, listening to

Bud Hemmingway’s recital of how Taylor had been brought to the

ranchhouse, Bothwell said shortly:

“I’m takin’ a look!”

Shortly afterward, followed by every man of the outfit who had ridden

in with him, Bothwell crossed the big basin and sent his horse up the

long slope to the big house.

Outside they came upon the bodies of the two men with whom Taylor had

fought. And inside the house they saw the other huddled on the floor

near a door in the big front room. Silently the men filed through the

house, looking into all the rooms, and noting the wreck and ruin that

had been wrought. They saw the broken glass of the little window

through which one of Carrington’s men had fired the first shot; they

noted the hole in the ceiling—caused by a bullet from Taylor’s pistol;

and they saw another hole in the wall near the door beside which

Taylor had been standing just before he had swung the door open.

“Three of them—an’ Carrington—accordin’ to what Bud says,” said

Bothwell. “That’s four.” He smiled bitterly. “They got him all

right—almost, I reckon. But from the looks of things they must have

had a roarin’ picnic doin’ it!”

Not disturbing anything, the entire outfit mounted and rode swiftly

down the Dawes trail, their hearts swelling with sympathy for Taylor

and passionate hatred for Carrington, “itching for a clean-up,” as one

sullen-looking member of the outfit described his feelings.

But there was no “clean-up.” When they reached Dawes they found the

town quiet—and men who saw them gave them plenty of room and forebore

to argue with them. For it was known that they were reckless, hardy

spirits when the mood came upon them, and that they worshiped Taylor.

And so they entered Dawes, and Dawes treated them with respect.

Passing the city hall, they noticed some men grouped in front of the

building, and they halted, Bothwell dismounting and entering.

“What’s the gang collectin’ for?” he asked a man—whom he knew for

Danforth. There was a belligerent thrust to Bothwell’s chin, and a

glare in his eyes that, Danforth felt, must be met with diplomacy.

“There’s been trouble at the Huggins house, and I’m sending these men

to investigate.”

“Give them diggin’ tools,” said Bothwell grimly. “An’ remember this—if

there’s any more herd-ridin’ of our boss the Arrow outfit is startin’

a private graveyard!” He pinned the mayor with a cold glare: “Where’s

Carrington?”

“In his rooms—under a doctor’s care. He’s hit—bad. A bullet in his

side.”

“Ought to be in his gizzard!” growled Bothwell. He went out, mounted,

and led his men away. They were reluctant to leave town, but Bothwell

was insistent. “They ain’t no fight in that bunch of plug-uglies!” he

scoffed. “We’ll go back an’ ’tend to business, an’ pull for the boss

to get well!”

And so they returned to the Arrow, to find that the Dawes doctor was

still with Taylor. The doctor sent out word to them that there was a

slight chance for his patient, and satisfied that they had done all

they could, they rode away, to attend to “business.”

For the first time in her life Marion Harlan was witnessing the fight

of a strong man to live despite grievous wounds that, she was certain,

would have instantly killed most men. But Taylor fought his fight

unconsciously, for he was still in that deep coma that had descended

upon him when he had gently slipped to the ground beside the house,

still fighting, still scorning the efforts of his enemies to finish

him.

And during the first night’s fever he still fought; the powerful

sedatives administered by the doctor had little effect. In his

delirium he muttered such terms and phrases as these: “Run, damn

you—run! I ain’t in any hurry, and I’ll get you!” And—“I’ll certainly

smash you some!” And—“A ‘thing,’ eh—I’ll show you! She’s mine, you

miserable whelp!”

Whether these were thoughts, or whether they were memories of past

utterances, made vivid and brought into the present by the fever, the

girl did not know. She sat beside his bed all night, with the doctor

near her, waiting and watching and listening.

And she heard more: “That’s Larry’s girl, and it’s up to me to protect

her.” And—“I knew she’d look like that.” Also—“They’re both tryin’ to

send her to hell! But I’ll fool them!” At these times there was

ineffable tenderness in his voice. But at times he broke out in

terrible wrath. “Ambush me, eh? Ha, ha! That was right clever of you,

Spotted Tail—we didn’t make a good target, did we? Only for your sense

we’d have—” He ceased, to begin anew: “I’ve got _you_—damn you!” And

then he would try to sit erect, swinging his arms as though he were

trying to hit someone.

But toward morning he fell into a fitful sleep—the sleep of

exhaustion; and when the dawn came, Mrs. Mullarky ordered the girl,

pale and wan from her night’s vigilance and service, to “go to bed.”

For three days it was the same. And for three days the doctor stayed

at the side of the patient, only sleeping when Miss Harlan watched

over Taylor.

And during the three days’ vigil, Taylor’s delirium lasted. The girl

learned more of his character during those three days of constant

watchfulness than she would have learned in as many years otherwise.

That he was honorable and courageous, she knew; but that he was so

sincerely apprehensive over her welfare she had never suspected. For

she learned through his ravings that he had fought Carrington and the

three men for her; that he had deliberately sought Carrington to

punish him for the attack on her, and that he had not considered his

own danger at all.

And at the beginning of the fourth day, when he opened his eyes and

stared wonderingly about the room, his gaze at first resting upon the

doctor, and then traveling to the girl’s face, and remaining there for

a long time, while a faint smile wreathed his lips, the girl’s heart

beat high with delight.

“Well, I’m still a going it,” he said weakly.

“I remember,” he went on, musingly. “When they was handing it to me, I

was thinking that I was in pretty bad shape. And then they must have

handed it to me some more, for I quit thinking at all. I’m going to

pull through—ain’t I?”

“You are!” declared the doctor. “That is,” he amended, “if you keep

your trap shut and do a lot of sleeping.”

“For which I’m going to have a lot of time,” smiled Taylor. “I’m going

to sleep, for I feel mighty like sleeping. But before I do any

sleeping, there’s a thing I want to know. Did Carrington’s men—the

last two—get away, or did I——”

“You did,” grinned the doctor. “Bothwell rode over there to find

out—and Mullarky saw them. Mullarky brought you back—and got me.”

“Carrington?” inquired the patient.

“Mullarky saw him. He says he never saw a man so beat up in his life.

Besides, you shot him, too—in the side. Not dangerous, but a heap

painful.”

Taylor smiled and looked at Miss Harlan. “I knew you were here,” he

said; “I’ve felt you near me. It was mighty comforting, and I want to

thank you for it. There were times when I must have shot off my mouth

a heap. If I said anything I shouldn’t have said, I’m a whole lot

sorry. And I’m asking your pardon.”

“You didn’t,” she said, her eyes eloquent with joy over the

improvement in him.

“Well, then, I’m going to sleep.” He raised his right hand—his good

one—and waved it gayly at them—and closed his eyes.