He put down the things he carried and crossed the room to the bedside.
"Yes.... For God's sake, haven't you got a drink?"—in a painful rasp.
"I have; one; just one, for you," the other replied, left the room and came back with a tumbler a third filled with whiskey. He propped Lytton's head with one hand and held the glass to his misshapen lips, while he guzzled greedily.
"More ... another ..." Lytton muttered a moment after he was back on his pillow.
"Seems to me you'd ought to know you've punished enough of this by now," the rancher said, standing with his hands on his hips and looking at the distorted expression of suffering on Lytton's face.
The sick man moved his head slightly in negation. Then, after a moment:
"How'd I get here? Who are you ... anyhow?"
"Don't you know me?"
The fevered eyes held on him, studying laboriously, and a smile struggled to bend the puffed lips.
"Sure ... you're the fellow, Nora's fellow ... the girl in the hotel. I tried to ... and she said you'd beat me up...." Something intended for a laugh sounded from his throat. The face of the man above him flushed slightly and the jaw muscles bulged under his cheek. "Where in hell am I? How'd I get here?"