"They was fightin' just as much for the name of the old Moonstone as for Collie, or for fun," said Williams.
"I know it. But I don't believe in such methods. That sort of thing is about done with," said Stone.
"I was readin' about the old days in the Panamint, not long ago," said Williams, gazing at a corner of the office. "I—they was a list of names of the ranchers that cleaned up the rustlers over there, back in '86. It was interestin'—some of them names."
Walter Stone coughed and turned in his chair. He gazed out of the window. Finally he faced Williams again. "We had to do it," he said, smiling.
Williams nodded. They understood each other.
The Marshalls, delighted with Los Angeles, had taken apartments in the city. Dr. Marshall, at the urgent request of Walter Stone, had called at the hospital to see Collie. The wound had healed slowly. Collie gained no strength. He seemed indifferent as to whether he recovered or not. Dr. Marshall, consulting with the surgeon, agreed that the young man's recovery was still doubtful. His vitality was extremely low. His usual optimism had stagnated.
Later, when Walter Stone, Mrs. Stone, and Louise visited the hospital, Collie had smiled wanly and said but little, thanking them for their visit with a word.
Louise returned home, heartsick and haunted by Collie's eyes that had seemed so listless, so indifferent, so weary. She had hoped to cheer him. His indifference affected her more than his actual physical condition, which seemed to be the cause of it. Louise recognized in herself a species of selfishness in feeling as she did. Like most folk of superabundant health she was unable to realize the possibilities of sickness. She longed for his companionship. She had not dared to ask herself whether or not she loved him. She was glad that he should love her—and yet she was not altogether happy. She had sent him her token, the little gray riding-gauntlet. He had in no way acknowledged it.
The sentiment incident to Collie's almost fatal misfortune did not blind her in the least. She told herself frankly that she missed him. At the ranch he had been with her much. From her he had gleaned of books and people. The actual advantage to him was not in the quantity of knowledge he had gained, but in the quality and direction suggested by her attitude toward all things. The advantage to her in his companionship had been the joy of giving, of shaping his thought, of seeing him slowly and unconsciously differentiate himself—stand apart from his fellows as something she had helped to create. This much of him she possessed through conscious effort.