“Much obliged for telling me,” she said, and turned to give attention to the changing of a bill.
When she had made the change, he was walking out through the door, his broad, square shoulders swinging heavily as if wearied by long effort.
“Tom!” she called sharply to her head bartender. “Tom, you look after this thing here. I—I don’t feel very good. I’m—I’m going out to-night and—I’m not coming back.”
And the head barman, astounded by any sign of weakness in this employer of his, was still blinking when she walked into her little private office in front of the building, slowly entered and slowly closed the door behind her.
It was three weeks later when Circumlocutory Smith rode into Georgeville. He had taken a direct trail that had not necessitated a ride through his beloved camp of Murdock, and felt slightly ashamed of his solicitude, a sentiment that he felt was rather womanish, not at all what a man should really feel about anybody; but—Ring had been pretty badly manhandled, and—also, he’d taken Ring to that hospital and said he’d be responsible for all bills, and—a man ought to pay his bills when they came due and maybe hospitals wanted their money every week and⸺ Hang it all⸺ How was that boy coming along, anyhow? Was he going to pull through? And if not—well—some of those murderers over there in Placer would have cause to remember him, Trigger Smith, if young Ring didn’t pull through. They would! You could bet on that! Damn ’em!
The miner saw some one sitting on the veranda of the second story, back in the shade, but paid no attention. He dismounted, tied his horse and, with a feeling of profound awkwardness, climbed the broad front steps and walked on tiptoe through the open doors into the clean, hard-wood corridor. Should a feller ring a bell, or yell, or—what did anybody do, anyhow, when they came to visit some one who was a patient in a hospital?
If you rang a bell, you might disturb some poor cuss, and if you yelled, maybe they’d come and throw you out. Further perplexities were spared by the opportune entrance of a cool young person in immaculately clean clothes and a funny cap and apron who had addressed him, heard and answered his question before he recovered presence of mind sufficient to drag off his weather-beaten and dust-covered hat.
“Oh, yes. Mr. Ring is all right now. No complications. Will be out in a week or two. He is sitting in the top veranda. You can go right up those stairs and out front to see him, if you wish.”
He tiptoed up the smooth wooden stairs and down the hallway, feeling that, despite his efforts, he was making noise enough to wake the dead, blinked in the sunlight that seemed intent on invading the wide porch, and then stopped, gasping, with widely opened eyes and mouth.
Two were sitting there in chairs drawn as closely as they could be drawn, one a man whose flaring red head was half covered with bandages, the other a woman whose arm was thrust protectingly about his neck and shoulders, as if to shield him from any or everything in an inimical world. The woman saw him first and, springing to her feet, came to meet him with both hands outstretched.