“We brought Dutch along,” Hugh said by way of explaining his absence.
A faint flash of amusement lit the drawn face. “Buck much, did he?”
“Oh, he reckoned he wouldn’t come along. Then he reckoned he would.”
Scot asked a question: “What have you been parboiling your face for?”
“Got caught in a mine fire. How are you feelin’, Scot?”
“Fine and dandy,” murmured the older brother indomitably. “Mollie’s spoiling me. Everybody’s mighty good. When I don’t feel so trifling I’ll say thank you proper.”
Mollie kissed him and said gently, “Now, you’ve talked enough.”
Business, much neglected of late, called Hugh to Virginia City. Every two or three days he ran down to Carson for a few hours. The doctors became more hopeful. The great vitality of their patient was beginning to triumph over the shock his system had endured.
Meanwhile, Scot’s political campaign had died down. If the Dodsons had been willing to let it alone, Ralph would probably have been nominated without opposition. But this was just what they could not do. They knew themselves that they had played a poor part in the contest with the McClintocks, and they were afraid that Nevada’s private judgment would be the same.
Sinister whispers passed from mouth to mouth. They found a discreet echo in the newspapers friendly to the Dodson candidacy. Scot McClintock had broken up the home of Robert Dodson. He belonged to Nevada’s past and not her present. The disgraceful affair at Carson showed him to be a desperate man, in the same class as the men Hopkins and Dutch. This was hinted in veiled language and not openly charged by the press.