After Falkner had been made as comfortable as possible, Ruth left him in charge of Norma Tait and retired to the pantry in search of food. When she had eaten she left word with Mrs. Stovall that she was going to sleep, but wanted to be called when Doctor Irwin arrived at the ranch.
At the housekeeper’s knock she awoke three hours later, refreshed and fit for anything. Ruth had not lived the past two years in outdoor Wyoming for nothing. She had grown tough of muscle and strong of body, so that she had gained the power of recuperation with very little rest.
Having examined the patient, Doctor Irwin retired with Ruth and Sheriff Matson to the front porch.
“What do you think?” asked the young woman anxiously.
“H’mp! Think—just missed a funeral,” he snorted. “Bullet struck half inch from artery.”
“But he’ll get well?”
“I reckon. Know better later.”
“When can I move him?” asked Matson.
“Don’t know. Not for a week or two, anyhow. You in a hurry to get him back to that hell where he came from, Sheriff?” bristled the old doctor.
“I’m not responsible for the pen, Doc,” answered Matson evenly. “And by all accounts I reckon Hal Falkner makes his own hell there. But I’m responsible for turning him over to the warden. If I could get him down to Wagon Wheel——”