A shudder told him what words faltered to name.
“It wasn’t my fight,” he told her.
“This is Governor Boyle,” said Agnes, presenting the stranger, who had stood looking at them with ill-contained impatience, seeing himself quite forgotten by both of them in that moment of meeting. 315
“I am sorry to tell you, sir, that your son is gravely wounded,” said Dr. Slavens, driving at once to the point.
“Where is he?” asked the Governor, his face pale, his throat working as if he struggled with anguish which fought to relieve itself in a cry.
Dr. Slavens motioned to the tent. The old man went forward, stopping when he saw his unconscious son and the bloody clothing beside the cot. He put his hand to his forehead and stood a moment, his eyes closed. Then he went in and bent over the wounded man.
A sob of pity rose in Agnes’ throat as she watched him and saw the pain and affection upon his face. Presently Governor Boyle turned and walked to the spot where Hun Shanklin’s body lay. Without a word, he lifted the coat from the gambler’s face, covered it again, and turned away.
“Bad company! Bad company!” said he, sadly shaking his head. “How did it happen, Doctor? You were here? First”–he held up his hand, as if to check the doctor’s speech–“will he live?”
“Men have recovered from worse wounds,” responded the doctor. “There’s a chance for him, at least.”
He related, then, the circumstance of the meeting, the brief quarrel, and the fight, Ten-Gallon putting in a word here and there, although his testimony was neither asked nor welcomed. 316