“I reckon that’s about right,” said that sober-faced puncher; “Ace is the pote lariat of this here outfit, an’ he sure has got a lot of right clever lines in his pomes. I’ve read them which wasn’t one-two-three with his’n.”
Norton smiled, a little cynically. He wasn’t quite sure about it, he said, but if Ace could write poetry he hadn’t any doubt that during the next few weeks there would be plenty of opportunity to print some of it in the Kicker. He smiled when he saw Ace’s face brighten. But he told him he would have to see Hollis–if the latter got well enough to endure an interview. If the boss recovered enough to be able to look at Ace’s poetry before it was printed, why of course it would have to be shown him. He didn’t want anything to go into the Kicker which the boss wouldn’t like. But if he wasn’t able to look at it, why he would leave the decision to Potter, and if it suited the latter he would be satisfied. He would keep the boys posted on the boss’s condition. Then he rode away toward the ranchhouse.
Late in the afternoon he again visited the Hazelton cabin. He found the Cimarron doctor already there. Hollis was still unconscious, though resting easier. The doctor declared that he would remain with him throughout the night. He followed Norton out on to the porch and told him that at present he could not tell just how serious Hollis’s injuries were. There was a great wound in his head which he feared might turn out seriously, but if not, Hollis would recover quickly and be as good as ever within a few weeks–except for his left wrist–which was broken. He praised Nellie Hazelton for the care she was giving the injured man. Convinced that there was nothing more to be done, Norton returned to the Circle Bar to give his attention to his work.
CHAPTER XIII
“WOMAN–SHE DON’T NEED NO TOOTER”
The Cimarron doctor’s fears for the wound on Hollis’s head had proved unfounded and on the tenth day after his experience on the night of the storm, Hollis was sitting on the Hazelton porch, his head still swathed in bandages, his left wrist in a splint, but his spirit still untouched. The marks on his face had all disappeared, except an ugly gash under his right eye–which still showed a slight discoloration–and a smaller cut on the chin. The Cimarron doctor had told him that the wound under his eye would leave a permanent scar–the wound had been deep and in spite of the doctor’s care, had drawn together queerly, affecting the eye itself and giving it an odd expression. Many times since becoming able to move about had Hollis looked at his face in his mirror, and each time there had come into his eyes an expression that boded ill for the men who had been concerned in the attack on him.
It was mid-afternoon and the sun was coming slant-wise over the roof of the cabin, creating a welcome shade on the porch. Ed Hazelton had been gone since morning, looking after his cattle, and Nellie was in the house, busily at work in the kitchen–Hollis could hear her as she stepped about the room.
Norton had left the cabin an hour before and a little later Potter had stopped in on his way over to Dry Bottom to set up an article that he had written at Hollis’s dictation. Hollis had told Norton of his experiences on the night of the storm.
After the flash of lightning had revealed Dunlavey and his men, Hollis had attempted to escape, knowing that Dunlavey’s intentions could not be peaceable, and that he would have no chance in a fight with several men. He had urged his pony toward the two buttes that he had seen during the lightning flash, making a circuit in order to evade his enemies. He might have succeeded, but unfortunately the darkness had lifted and they had been able to intercept him. He could give no clear account of what had happened after they had surrounded him. There had been no words spoken. He had tried to break out of the circle; had almost succeeded when a loop settled over his shoulders and he was dragged from his pony–dragged quite a distance.
The fall had hurt him, but when the rope had slackened he had regained his feet–to see that all the men had surrounded him. One man struck at him and he had immediately struck back, knocking the man down. After that the blows came thick and fast. He hit several more faces that were close to him and at one time was certain he had put three of his assailants out of the fight. But the others had crowded him close. He fought them as well as he could with the great odds against him, and once was inspired with a hope that he might escape. Then had come a heavy blow on the head–he thought that one of the men had used the butt of a revolver. He could dimly remember receiving a number of other blows and then he knew nothing more until he had awakened in the Hazelton cabin.