Governor Boyle was walking up and down like a sentry before the tent when Dr. Slavens came up.
“He’s asleep,” said the father. “He seems to be pitifully weak for a man suffering from a fresh wound; he dropped off as if he had fainted.”
“When you consider that a bullet of that caliber, with the powder back of it that this one had, strikes somewhere around a ton,” said the doctor, “it ceases to be a wonder that he is weak.”
“It’s Heaven’s mercy that spared him!” declared the Governor, his voice troubled with emotion.
Slavens wondered at the deep affection which this man of so hard a repute could show for his son, and at the tie of tenderness which plainly bound them. But 326 precedent is not wanting, as the doctor reflected, to establish the contention that some of the world’s greatest oppressors have been good fathers, kind husbands, and tender guardians of the home.
“Yes; Shanklin shot twice,” said Slavens. “It was his second one that hit, after he had been mortally hurt himself.”
“It was the hand of Providence that turned his aim!” said the Governor. “The old one-eyed villain had the reputation of being the best shot in the Northwest. He provoked my son to draw on him, or tried to at least–for I can’t believe that Jerry drew first–with the intention of putting him out of the way.”
“What do you propose to do about bringing another surgeon here?” asked Dr. Slavens.
“Why, I hadn’t given it any serious thought,” answered Governor Boyle, looking at him quickly.
“It would please me better to have you do so.”