Collie lay, hollow-cheeked and ghastly, in the dim interior of the tent. His eyes were wide and fixed. Overland came in. Collie recognized him and tried to smile. Overland backed out of the tent and strode away growling. The tears were running down his unshaven cheeks. He did not return until later in the day. Then he asked the surgeon that oft-repeated question.
"I don't see how he can recover," said the surgeon quietly. "Of course there's a slim chance. Don't build on it, though."
"If there's a chance, I reckon he will freeze to it," said Overland. "From what he was ramblin' about when he was off his head, I reckon he's got somethin' more to live for than just himself."
"Has he any relatives?" queried the surgeon.
"Nope. Except me. But he was expectin' to have, I guess. And I tell you what, Doc, she's worth gettin' shot up for."
"Too bad! Too bad," muttered the surgeon.
The other shook his head. "If there is any one that he would care to see, or that would care to see him, you had better write at once."
Overland was stunned. The doctor's word had been given at last, and it was not a word of hope.
Overland Red bowed to the doctor's opinion, but his heart was unconquerable. He wrote a long letter to his old-time friend, Brand Williams, of the Moonstone Ranch. The letter was curiously worded. It did not mention Louise Lacharme, nor Mrs. Stone, nor the rancher. It was, in the main, about Mexico and the "old days"; no hint of Collie's accident was in the page until the very end. The letter concluded with "But you needn't think you owe me anything for that. I was glad to put him to the hush because we was pals them days. Collie was shot by Saunders. The doctor says he will die most likely. He was shot in the back. It would go bad with Saunders if the Moonstone boys ever heard of this."