There seemed to be nothing for Slavens to do but to forego his trip in quest of Agnes, and sit there in the hope that she would come. Boyle could not be left alone, and Shanklin’s body must be brought up out of the gully and covered.
This ran through his mind in erratic starts and blanks as he bent over the wounded man, listening to his respiration with more of a humane than professional fear that the next breath might tell him of the hemorrhage which would make a sudden end of Boyle’s wavering and uncertain life.
Ten-Gallon had been gone but a little while when Slavens heard him clattering back in his heel-dragging 314 walk over the rocks. He appeared before the doctor with a lively relief in his face.
“Some people headin’ in here,” he announced. “Maybe they’ll be of some help to you. I hated to go and leave you here alone with that feller”–jerking his head toward Shanklin’s body–“for I wouldn’t trust him dead no more than I would alive!”
“All right,” said Slavens, scarcely looking up.
Ten-Gallon appeared to be over his anxiety to leave. He waited in front of the tent as the sound of horses came nearer.
“Stop them off there a little way,” ordered the doctor. “We don’t want any more dust around here than we can help.”
He looked around for his hat, put it on, and went out, sleeves up, to see that his order was enforced. Agnes was alighting from a horse as he stepped out. A tall, slight man with a gray beard was demanding of Ten-Gallon what had happened there.
Relief warmed the terror out of her eyes as Agnes ran forward and caught Dr. Slavens’ hand.
“You’re safe!” she cried. “I feared–oh, I feared!”