CONCLUSION.
Matt King opened his eyes in his old room at the Briggs House. The roar of the limited was still in his ears, and the awful grinding crash that he had last heard. Sheriff Burke was sitting beside the bed and there were innumerable bandages about Matt's body and a strong smell of drugs in the room.
"How's everything?" Matt mumbled, trying to sit up.
Burke gently pushed him back.
"Fine and dandy, Matt," said he: "but, best of all, is the way you got out of that smash."
"Oh, is it you, Mr. Burke?" queried Matt.
"Surest thing you know," laughed Burke. "That was a great race you made. Racin' the limited! First time it was ever done in these parts."
"Who brought me in?" went on Matt.
"A couple of freighters who were with the wagon you ran into. They thought you were going to turn up your toes, but 'Not for him,' says I. 'That boy,' I says, 'wasn't born to be snuffed out in a little smash like that.' But you've been unconscious for quite a while."
"How long?"