“Wire—for—Mollie. Tell her—not to—worry.”
Mollie came down from Virginia. She reached Carson by daybreak. Scot was still living, still holding his own, though the doctors held out no hope of recovery. At the end of forty-eight hours he was in a high fever, but his strength was unabated. The fever broke. He came out of it weak but with the faint, indomitable smile of the unconquered on his face.
His hand pressed Mollie’s softly. “It’s all right, sweetheart. I’ll make it sure,” he promised.
The tears welled into her eyes. His courage took her by the throat and choked her, for the doctors still gave her no encouragement.
“Yes,” she whispered, and tried to keep the sob out of her voice.
“What’s a li’l’ thing like three bullets among one perfectly good man?” he asked whimsically.
“You’re not to talk, the doctor says,” she reproved.
“All right. Where’s Hugh?”
“He left yesterday to ’tend to some business.”
“What business?” A frown of anxiety wrinkled his pale forehead.