The moment he had gone a faint sigh escaped the injured man. Nan held her breath. Would he—speak? She would give worlds to hear the sound of his voice, She had believed him dying. Now a wild hope surged. If he would—could speak, it seemed to her simple logic that he must—live.
"Nan!"
The word was distinct, but, oh, the weakness of voice. The girl thrilled.
"Yes, Jeff. I'm here. I'm right beside you."
"Tell me—things."
The girl's heart sank. In a flash she remembered all there was to tell. Why had his first thoughts on returning life been of these—things? Yet it was like him—so like him. She drew a deep breath and resorted to subterfuge.
"It's as Dad shouted at you just now, Jeff. You beat them all—lone-handed. But you mustn't talk. Don't worry about them. Guess they're not worth it. You've been shot up, Jeff, an' Dad an' I we've just fixed you the best we know, an' the boys have gone right in for a wagon, an' a doctor. The doc's got to get in from Moose Creek, twenty miles away. That's what scares me."
The smile in the man's eyes had deepened.
"Don't—get—scared, Nan. I'm—not dying."
The girl thrilled at the assurance in the tired voice. But the thrill passed as swiftly as it came. She knew what would follow when Jeff had gathered sufficient strength.