“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.”