The wounded man slept well that night. If he suffered nobody knew it. In the morning his condition was slightly improved, and after hearing a most cheerful and favorable report from both doctor and nurse, Donna decided not to prejudice her position at the eating-house by staying away another day, and accordingly she set off up the track to the town. She was half-way there when she observed Harley P. Hennage walking toward her from the direction of the cemetery.
“Well, Miss Donna,” he began as he approached, “how are you after the battle?”
“Still a little shaky, Mr. Hennage, but not enough to prevent my going to work. I can count change, to-day, I think.”
“Good news, good news. If I was governor of this state I'd declare to-day a legal holiday. How's the wounded hero? Able to sit up and take some food?”
“No, no food as yet. Nothing but nutriment. Who ever heard of a sick man getting anything but that?”
Mr. Hennage showed his three gold teeth. “Ain't Mrs. Pennycook been down with a plate o' calf's-foot jelly or somethin' o' that nature?” he asked.
It was Donna's turn to laugh. “I hardly think she'll come. She hasn't given me a friendly look in three years.”
“Well, of course, you haven't needed her,” the gambler reminded her, “but she'll be droppin' in before long, now—Bob McGraw's a stranger in town, an' entitled to the kindly services o' the community as a whole, so Mrs. P. can show up at the Hat Ranch under those conditions without unbendin' her dignity.”
“I suppose she is kind enough in her way,” Donna began, “but—”
“You don't like her way, eh?”