CHAPTER XI — THE FAT IN THE FIRE
For two days Fraser remained in the cabin of the stockman Howard, France making it his business to see that the place was never left unguarded for a moment. At the end of that time the fever had greatly abated, and he was doing so well that Doctor Lee decided it would be better to move him to the Dillon ranch for the convenience of all parties.
This was done, and the patient continued steadily to improve. His vigorous constitution, helped by the healthy, clean, outdoor life he had led, stood him in good stead. Day by day he renewed the blood he had lost. Soon he was eating prodigious dinners, and between meals was drinking milk with an egg beaten in it.
On a sunny forenoon, when he lay in the big window of the living room, reading a magazine, Arlie entered, a newspaper in her hand. Her eyes were strangely bright, even for her, and she had a manner of repressed excitement, Her face was almost colorless.
“Here's some more in the Avalanche about our adventure near Gimlet Butte,” she told him, waving the paper.
“Nothing like keeping in the public eye,” said Steve, grinning. “I don't reckon our little picnic at Bald Knob is likely to get in the Avalanche, though. It probably hasn't any correspondent at Lost Valley. Anyhow, I'm hoping not.”
“Mr. Fraser, there is something in this paper I want you to explain. But tell me first when it was you shot this man Faulkner. I mean at just what time in the fight.”
“Why, I reckon it must have been just before I ducked.”
“That's funny, too.” She fixed her direct, fearless gaze on him. “The evidence at the coroner's jury shows that it was in the early part of the fight he was shot, before father and I left you.”