Jeffard went silent at that, lying back with closed eyes and no more than a twitching of the lips to show that he was not asleep. After what seemed an interminable interval to the mine-owner, he said:—
"I do refuse, for the present. A few days later, when I have done what I have to do, there will be time enough to discuss ways and means—and ethics, if you still feel inclined that way. May I trouble you to run that window-shade up?" He was sitting on the edge of the bed and groping beneath it for his shoes.
The promoter admitted the light and ventured a question.
"What are you going to do?"
"Get on the ground with the least possible delay."
The shoes were found, but when the wounded one bent to lace them the room spun around and he would have fallen if Denby had not caught him.
"You're not fit," said the master of men, not unsympathetically. "You couldn't sit a horse if your life depended upon it."
"I must; therefore I can and will," Jeffard asserted, with fine determination. "Be good enough to ask the bell-boy to come in and lace my shoes."
The man with a mission to compel other men smiled. His fetish was indomitable resolution, for himself first, and afterward for those who deserved; and here was a man who, whatever his lacks and havings in the ethical field, was at least courageous. Having admitted so much, the promoter went down on one knee to lace the courageous one's shoes, dissuading him, meanwhile.
"You can't go to-day; the wound-fever will come on presently, and you'll be a sick man. Let it rest a while. Having put himself on the criminal side of the fence by trying to kill you, your partner will hardly dare to jump the claim in person; he will have to find a proxy, and that will ask for time,—more time than the sheriff-dodging will permit."