“What is the sheriff doing here?”
“Came in late last night with a posse. Word had been ’phoned him that Falkner had been seen in the hills heading for the Montana line. He aimed to close the passes, I reckon.”
Mrs. Stovall bore down upon them from the back door of the house. Ruth cut her off without allowing the housekeeper a word.
“No time to talk now, Mrs. Stovall. Feed Baby. He’s about starved. I’ll look after this business.”
With Jennings striding beside her, Ruth went across to the group surrounding the wounded man.
“Is he badly hurt?” she demanded.
One of her own punchers looked up and answered gravely: “Looks like, ma’am. In the leg. He’s bleeding a lot.”
The sight of the blood trickling down to the white snow for an instant sickened Ruth. But she repressed at once any weakness. Matson she ousted from command.
“Stop the bleeding with a tourniquet, Jennings; then have him carried to the house—to Rowan’s room. Sheriff, ’phone Doctor Irwin to come at once. Better send one of your men to meet him.”
Ruth herself flew to the house. She forgot that she was exhausted, forgot that she had had neither supper nor breakfast. The call for action carried her out of her own needs. Before the men had arrived with the wounded outlaw she was ready with sponges, cold water, and bandages.