"Maybe they will, son," the rancher agreed, gently pushing him back; "maybe. But they'll leave tracks."
"Yes, by God! they'll leave tracks!" Morgan muttered.
"Don't you think I'd better send my boy over to town for the doctor?" the rancher asked.
"Not unless you're uneasy about me."
"No, your head's all right and your bones are whole. You'll heal up, but it'll take some time."
Morgan said he felt that more had been done for him already than any number of doctors could have accomplished, for the service had been one of humanity, with no thought of reward. They would let the doctor stay in Ascalon, and Morgan would go to him if he felt the need coming on. The rancher disclaimed credit for a service such as one man owed another the world over, he said. But it was plain that he was touched by the outspoken gratitude of this wreckage of humanity that had come halting in bonds to his door.
"I'm a stranger to this country," Morgan explained, "I arrived in Ascalon yesterday—" pausing to ponder it, thinking it must have been longer than a day ago—"yesterday"—with conviction, "a little after noon. Morgan is my name. I came here to settle on land."
"You're the man that took the new marshal's gun away from him," the rancher said, nodding slowly. "My daughter knew you the minute she saw you—she was over there yesterday after the mail."
Morgan's heart jumped. He looked about the room for her, but she and her mother had withdrawn.
"I guess I made a mistake when I mixed up with him," Morgan said, as if he excused himself to the absent girl.