“Boss, I want to see you a minute, ef—Mary don’t mind.”
“I will come with you, Jim, now,” said Langford with quick apprehension.
“Mary,”—Jim turned away and stared unseeingly down the staircase,—“go back to your room for a little while. I will call for you soon. Keep up your courage.”
“Wait,” said Mary, quietly. There were unsounded depths of despair in her voice, though it was so clear and low. “There was another shot. I remember now. Jim, tell me!”
Jim turned. The rough cowboy’s eyes were wet—for the first time in many a year.
“They—hope he won’t die, Mary, girl. Your father’s shot bad, but he ain’t dead. We think Black did it after he run from Gordon’s office. We found him on the corner.”
Langford squared his broad shoulders—then put strong, protecting arms around Mary. Now was he her all.
“Come, my darling, we will go to him together.”
She pushed him from her violently.
“I will go alone. Why should you come? He is mine. He is all I have—there is no one else. Why don’t you go? You are big and strong—can’t you make that man suffer for my father’s murder? Jim, take me to him.”