Half an hour later the rain ceased, but the water was still racing down the hill in little trickling rivulets toward the ranch buildings. And as rapidly as the storm had come up so the sky cleared. Again the stars shone out and a faint radiance dimly outlined the scene of the attack.
Within fifty yards of the rancher’s house Tresler was still stretched out upon the ground, but now a different figure was bending over him. It was a well-defined figure this time, a familiar figure. A little man with a gray head and a twisted face.
It was Joe Nelson trying, by every rough art his prairie life had taught him, to restore animation and consciousness in his friend. For a long time his efforts were unavailing; the task seemed hopeless. Then, when the little man had begun to fear the very worst, his patient suddenly moved and threw out his legs convulsively. Once the springs of life had been set in motion, the hardy constitution asserted itself, and, without further warning, Tresler sat bolt upright and stared about him wonderingly. For a few seconds he sat thus, then, with a movement of intense agony, one hand went up to his head.
“My God! What’s the matter with me? My head!”
He slowly rocked himself for a brief spell; then, with another start, he recognized his friend, and, with an effort, sprang to his feet.
“Joe!” he cried. Then he reeled and would have fallen but for the supporting arm about his waist.
“You wer’ nigh ‘done up.’ Say, I wus kind o’ rattled. I’d shaddered that feller fer an hour or more, an’ then lost him. Gee!” And there was an infinite expression of disgust in the exclamation.
“Him! Who?”
“Ther’s on’y one feller around here hatin’ you fit to murder, I guess.”