Taylor’s last shot, when he had been automatically pressing the trigger after Carrington had struck him viciously with his fist, had brought down the last of the three men who had ambushed him. And one of his last bullets had struck Carrington, who had recovered consciousness and staggered out of the house in time to see the end of the fight. And the big man, in a black, malignant fury of hatred, was staggering toward Taylor, lifting a foot to kick him, when from the direction of the clearing in front of the house came a voice, hoarse and vibrant with a cold, deadly rage:

“One kick an’ I blow the top of your head off!” Carrington stopped short and wheeled, to face Ben Mullarky.

The Irishman’s eyes were blazing with wrath, and as he came forward, peering at the figures lying on the ground near the house, Carrington retreated, holding up his hands.

“Three of ye pilin’ on one, eh?” said Mullarky as he looked down at Taylor, huddled against the side of the house. “An’ ye got him, too, didn’t ye? I’ve a domn big notion to blow the top of your head off, anny way. Ye slope, ye big limb of the divvle, or I’ll do it!”

Mullarky watched while Carrington mounted his horse and rode up the river trail toward Dawes, and the instant Carrington was out of sight, Mullarky was down on his knees beside Taylor, taking a lightning inventory of his wounds.

“Four of them, looks like!” he muttered thickly, his voice shaking with pity for the slack, limp, smoke-blackened figure that lay silent, the trace of a smile on its face. “An’ two of them through the shoulder!” He paused, awed. “Lord, what a shindy!”

Then, swiftly gulping down his sympathy and his rage, Mullarky ran to his horse, which he had left at the edge of the wood when he had heard the shooting. He led the animal back to where Taylor lay, tenderly lifted Taylor in his arms, walked to the horse, and after much labor got Taylor up in front of him on the horse, Taylor’s weight resting on his legs, the man’s head and shoulders resting against him, to ease the jars of the journey.

Then he started, traveling as swiftly as possible down the big slope toward his own house, not so very far away.

Spotted Tail, jealously watching his master, saw him lifted to the back of the other horse. Shrewdly suspecting that all was not going well, and that his master would need him presently, Spotted Tail trotted after Mullarky.

In this manner, with Spotted Tail a few paces in his rear, Mullarky, still tenderly carrying his burden, reached his cabin.

He stilled Mrs. Mullarky’s hysterical questions with a short command:

“Hitch up the buckboard while I’m gettin’ him in shape!”

And then, while Mrs. Mullarky did as she was bidden, Mullarky carried Taylor inside the cabin, bathed his wounds, stanching the flow of blood as best he could – and came out again, carrying Taylor, and placed him in the bed of the light spring-wagon, upon some quilts – and upon a pillow that Mrs. Mullarky ran into the house to get, emerging with the reproach:

“You’d be lettin’ him ride on them hard boards!”

Following Mullarky’s instructions, Mrs. Mullarky climbed to the driver’s seat and sent the buckboard toward the Arrow, driving as fast as she thought she dared. And Ben Mullarky, on Spotted Tail, turned his face toward Dawes, riding as he had never ridden before.

Parsons had reached the Arrow shortly after Taylor had departed for Dawes. The man had stopped at the Mullarky cabin to inquire the way from the lady, and she had frankly commented upon Parsons’ battered appearance.

“So it was Carrington that mauled you, eh?” she said. “Well, he’s a mighty evil man – the divvle take his sowl!”

Parsons concurred in this view of Carrington, though he did not tell Mrs. Mullarky so. He went on his way, refusing the good woman’s proffer of a horse, for he wanted to go afoot to the Arrow. He felt sure of Marion’s sympathy, but he wanted to make himself as pitiable an object as possible. And as he walked toward the Arrow he mentally dramatized the moment of his appearance at the ranchhouse – a bruised and battered figure dragging itself wearily forward, dusty, thirst-tortured, and despairing. He knew that spectacle would win the girl’s swift sympathy. The fact that the girl herself had been through almost the same experience did not affect him at all – he did not even think of it.

And when Parsons reached the Arrow the scene was even as he had dreamed it – Marion Harlan had seen him from afar, and came running to him, placing an arm about him, helping him forward, whispering words of sympathy in his ears, so that Parsons really began to look upon himself as a badly abused martyr.

Marion cared for him tenderly, once she got him into the ranchhouse. She bathed his bruised face, prepared breakfast for him, and later, learning from him that he had not slept during the night, she sent him off to bed, asking him as he went into the room if he had seen Ben Mullarky.

“For,” she added, “he came here early this morning, after Mr. Taylor left, and I sent him to the big house to get some things for me.”

But Parsons had not seen Mullarky.

And at last, when the morning was nearly gone, and Marion saw a horse-drawn vehicle approaching the Arrow from the direction of Dawes, she ran out, thinking Ben Mullarky had brought her “things” in his buckboard. But it was not Ben who was coming, but Mrs. Mullarky. The lady’s face was very white and serious, and when the girl came close and she saw the look on the good woman’s face, she halted in her tracks and stood rigid, her own face paling.

“Why, Mrs. Mullarky, what has happened?”

“Enough, deary.” Mrs. Mullarky waved an eloquent hand toward the rear of the buckboard, and slowly approaching, the girl saw the huddled figure lying there, swathed in quilts.

She drew her breath sharply, and with pallid face, swaying a little, she walked to the rear of the buckboard and stood, holding hard to the rim of a wheel, looking down at Taylor’s face with its closed eyes and its ghastly color.

She must have screamed, then, for she felt Mrs. Mullarky’s arms around her, and she heard the lady’s voice, saying: “Don’t, deary; he ain’t dead, yet – an’ he won’t die – we won’t let him die.”

She stood there by the buckboard for a time – until Mrs. Mullarky, running to one of the outbuildings, returned with Bud Hemmingway. Then, nerved to the ordeal by Bud’s businesslike methods, and the awful profanity that gushed from his clenched teeth, she helped them carry Taylor into the house.

They took Taylor into his own room and laid him on the bed; a long, limp figure, pitifully shattered, lying very white and still.

The girl stayed in the room while Mrs. Mullarky and Bud ran hither and thither getting water, cloths, stimulants, and other indispensable articles. And during one of their absences the girl knelt beside the bed, and resting her head close to Taylor’s – with her hands stroking his blackened face – she whispered:

“O Lord, save him – save him for – for me!”

CHAPTER XXII – LOOKING FOR TROUBLE

Before night the Arrow outfit, led by Bothwell, the range boss, came into the ranchhouse. For the news had reached them – after the manner in which all news travels in the cow-country – by word of mouth – and they had come in – all those who could be spared – to determine the truth of the rumor.

There were fifteen of them, rugged, capable-looking fellows; and despite the doctor’s objections, they filed singly, though noiselessly, into Taylor’s room and silently looked down upon their “boss.” Marion, watching them from a corner of the room, noted their quick gulps of pity, their grim faces, the savage gleams that came into their eyes, and she knew they were thinking of vengeance upon the men who had wrought the injury to their employer.

Bothwell – big, grim, and deliberate of manner – said nothing as he looked down into his chief’s face. But later, outside the house, listening to Bud Hemmingway’s recital of how Taylor had been brought to the ranchhouse, Bothwell said shortly:

“I’m takin’ a look!”

Shortly afterward, followed by every man of the outfit who had ridden in with him, Bothwell crossed the big basin and sent his horse up the long slope to the big house.

Outside they came upon the bodies of the two men with whom Taylor had fought. And inside the house they saw the other huddled on the floor near a door in the big front room. Silently the men filed through the house, looking into all the rooms, and noting the wreck and ruin that had been wrought. They saw the broken glass of the little window through which one of Carrington’s men had fired the first shot; they noted the hole in the ceiling – caused by a bullet from Taylor’s pistol; and they saw another hole in the wall near the door beside which Taylor had been standing just before he had swung the door open.

“Three of them – an’ Carrington – accordin’ to what Bud says,” said Bothwell. “That’s four.” He smiled bitterly. “They got him all right – almost, I reckon. But from the looks of things they must have had a roarin’ picnic doin’ it!”

Not disturbing anything, the entire outfit mounted and rode swiftly down the Dawes trail, their hearts swelling with sympathy for Taylor and passionate hatred for Carrington, “itching for a clean-up,” as one sullen-looking member of the outfit described his feelings.

But there was no “clean-up.” When they reached Dawes they found the town quiet – and men who saw them gave them plenty of room and forebore to argue with them. For it was known that they were reckless, hardy spirits when the mood came upon them, and that they worshiped Taylor.

And so they entered Dawes, and Dawes treated them with respect. Passing the city hall, they noticed some men grouped in front of the building, and they halted, Bothwell dismounting and entering.

“What’s the gang collectin’ for?” he asked a man – whom he knew for Danforth. There was a belligerent thrust to Bothwell’s chin, and a glare in his eyes that, Danforth felt, must be met with diplomacy.

“There’s been trouble at the Huggins house, and I’m sending these men to investigate.”

“Give them diggin’ tools,” said Bothwell grimly. “An’ remember this – if there’s any more herd-ridin’ of our boss the Arrow outfit is startin’ a private graveyard!” He pinned the mayor with a cold glare: “Where’s Carrington?”

“In his rooms – under a doctor’s care. He’s hit – bad. A bullet in his side.”

“Ought to be in his gizzard!” growled Bothwell. He went out, mounted, and led his men away. They were reluctant to leave town, but Bothwell was insistent. “They ain’t no fight in that bunch of plug-uglies!” he scoffed. “We’ll go back an’ ’tend to business, an’ pull for the boss to get well!”

And so they returned to the Arrow, to find that the Dawes doctor was still with Taylor. The doctor sent out word to them that there was a slight chance for his patient, and satisfied that they had done all they could, they rode away, to attend to “business.”

For the first time in her life Marion Harlan was witnessing the fight of a strong man to live despite grievous wounds that, she was certain, would have instantly killed most men. But Taylor fought his fight unconsciously, for he was still in that deep coma that had descended upon him when he had gently slipped to the ground beside the house, still fighting, still scorning the efforts of his enemies to finish him.

And during the first night’s fever he still fought; the powerful sedatives administered by the doctor had little effect. In his delirium he muttered such terms and phrases as these: “Run, damn you – run! I ain’t in any hurry, and I’ll get you!” And – “I’ll certainly smash you some!” And – “A ‘thing,’ eh – I’ll show you! She’s mine, you miserable whelp!”

Whether these were thoughts, or whether they were memories of past utterances, made vivid and brought into the present by the fever, the girl did not know. She sat beside his bed all night, with the doctor near her, waiting and watching and listening.

And she heard more: “That’s Larry’s girl, and it’s up to me to protect her.” And – “I knew she’d look like that.” Also – “They’re both tryin’ to send her to hell! But I’ll fool them!” At these times there was ineffable tenderness in his voice. But at times he broke out in terrible wrath. “Ambush me, eh? Ha, ha! That was right clever of you, Spotted Tail – we didn’t make a good target, did we? Only for your sense we’d have – ” He ceased, to begin anew: “I’ve got you– damn you!” And then he would try to sit erect, swinging his arms as though he were trying to hit someone.

But toward morning he fell into a fitful sleep – the sleep of exhaustion; and when the dawn came, Mrs. Mullarky ordered the girl, pale and wan from her night’s vigilance and service, to “go to bed.”

For three days it was the same. And for three days the doctor stayed at the side of the patient, only sleeping when Miss Harlan watched over Taylor.

And during the three days’ vigil, Taylor’s delirium lasted. The girl learned more of his character during those three days of constant watchfulness than she would have learned in as many years otherwise. That he was honorable and courageous, she knew; but that he was so sincerely apprehensive over her welfare she had never suspected. For she learned through his ravings that he had fought Carrington and the three men for her; that he had deliberately sought Carrington to punish him for the attack on her, and that he had not considered his own danger at all.

And at the beginning of the fourth day, when he opened his eyes and stared wonderingly about the room, his gaze at first resting upon the doctor, and then traveling to the girl’s face, and remaining there for a long time, while a faint smile wreathed his lips, the girl’s heart beat high with delight.

“Well, I’m still a going it,” he said weakly.

“I remember,” he went on, musingly. “When they was handing it to me, I was thinking that I was in pretty bad shape. And then they must have handed it to me some more, for I quit thinking at all. I’m going to pull through – ain’t I?”

“You are!” declared the doctor. “That is,” he amended, “if you keep your trap shut and do a lot of sleeping.”

“For which I’m going to have a lot of time,” smiled Taylor. “I’m going to sleep, for I feel mighty like sleeping. But before I do any sleeping, there’s a thing I want to know. Did Carrington’s men – the last two – get away, or did I – ”

“You did,” grinned the doctor. “Bothwell rode over there to find out – and Mullarky saw them. Mullarky brought you back – and got me.”

“Carrington?” inquired the patient.

“Mullarky saw him. He says he never saw a man so beat up in his life. Besides, you shot him, too – in the side. Not dangerous, but a heap painful.”

Taylor smiled and looked at Miss Harlan. “I knew you were here,” he said; “I’ve felt you near me. It was mighty comforting, and I want to thank you for it. There were times when I must have shot off my mouth a heap. If I said anything I shouldn’t have said, I’m a whole lot sorry. And I’m asking your pardon.”

“You didn’t,” she said, her eyes eloquent with joy over the improvement in him.

“Well, then, I’m going to sleep.” He raised his right hand – his good one – and waved it gayly at them – and closed his eyes.

CHAPTER XXIII – A WORLD-OLD LONGING

Looking back upon the long period of Taylor’s convalescence, Marion Harlan could easily understand why she had surrendered to the patient.

In the first place, she had liked Taylor from the very beginning – even when she had affected to ridicule him on the train coming toward Dawes. She had known all along that she had liked him, and on that morning when she had visited the Arrow to ask about her father Taylor had woven a magnetic spell about her.

That meeting and the succeeding ones had merely strengthened her liking for him. But the inevitable intimacy between nurse and patient during several long weeks of convalescence had wrought havoc with her heart.

Taylor’s unfailing patience and good humor had been another factor in bringing about her surrender. It was hard for her to believe that he had fought a desperate battle which had resulted in the death of three men and the wounding of Carrington and himself; for there were no savage impulses or passions gleaming in the eyes that followed her every movement while she had been busy in the sickroom for some weeks. Nor could she see any lingering threat in them, promising more violence upon his recovery. He seemed to have forgotten that there had been a fight, and during the weeks that she had been close to him he had not even mentioned it. He had been content, it seemed, to lounge in a chair and listen to her while she read, to watch her; and there had been times when she had seen a glow in his eyes that told her things that she longed to hear him say.

The girl’s surrender had not been conveyed to Taylor in words, though she was certain he knew of it; for the signs of it must have been visible, since she could feel the blushes in her cheeks at times when a word or a look passing between them was eloquent with the proof of her aroused emotions.

It was on a morning about six weeks following the incident of the shooting that she and Taylor had walked to the river. Upon a huge flat rock near the edge of a slight promontory they seated themselves, Taylor turned slightly, so that she had only a profile view of him.

Taylor’s thoughts were grave. For from where he and the girl sat – far beyond the vast expanse of green-brown grass that carpeted the big level – he could see a huge cleft in some mountains. And the sight of that cleft sent Taylor’s thoughts leaping back to the days he and Larry Harlan had spent in these mountains, searching for – and finding – that gold for which they had come. And inevitably as the contemplation of the mountains brought him recollections of Larry Harlan he was reminded of his obligation to his old-time partner. And the difficulties of discharging that obligation were increasing, it seemed.

At least, Taylor’s duty was not quite clear to him. For while Parsons still retained a place in the girl’s affections he could not turn over to her Larry’s share of the money he had received from the sale of the mine.

And Parsons did retain the girl’s affections – likewise her confidence and trust. A man must be blind who could not see that. For the girl looked after him as any dutiful girl might care for a father she loved. Her attitude toward the man puzzled Taylor, for, he assured himself, if she would but merely study the man’s face perfunctorily she could not have failed to see the signs of deceit and hypocrisy in it. All of which convinced Taylor of the truth of the old adage: “Love is blind.”

One other influence which dissuaded Taylor from an impulse to turn over Larry’s money to the girl was his determination to win her on his own merits. That might have seemed selfishness on his part, but now that the girl was at the Arrow he could see that she was well supplied with everything she needed. Her legacy would not buy her more than he would give her gratuitously. And he did not want her to think for a single moment he was trying to buy her love. That, to his mind was gross commercialism.

Marion was not looking at the mountains; she was watching Taylor’s profile – and blushing over thoughts that came to her.

For she wished that she might have met him under different conditions – upon a basis of equality. And that was not the basis upon which they stood now. She had come to the Arrow because she had no other place to go, vindicating her action upon Taylor’s declaration that he had been her father’s friend.

That had been a tangible premise, and was sufficient to satisfy, or to dull, any surface scruples he might have had regarding the propriety of the action. But her own moral sense struck deeper than that. She felt she had no right to be here; that Taylor had made the offer of a partnership out of charity. And so long as she stayed here, dependent upon him for food and shelter, she could not permit him to speak a word of love to her – much as she wanted him to speak it. Such was the puritanical principle driven deep into the moral fabric of her character by a mother who had set her a bad example.

This man had fought for her; he had risked his life to punish a man who had wronged her in thought, only; and she knew he loved her. And yet, seated so near him, she could not put out the hand that longed to touch him.

However, her thoughts were not tragic – far from it! Youth is hopeful because it has so long to wait. And there was in her heart at this moment a presentiment that time would sever the bonds of propriety that held her. And the instincts of her sex – though never having been tested in the arts of coquetry – told her how to keep his heart warm toward her until that day, having achieved her independence, she could meet him on a basis of equality.

“Mr. Squint,” she suddenly demanded; “what are you thinking about?”

He turned and looked full at her, his eyes glowing with a grave humor.

“I’d tell you if I thought you’d listen to me,” he returned, significantly. “But it seems that every time I get on that subject you poke fun at me. Is there anything I can do to show you that I love you – that I want you more than any man ever wanted a woman?”

“Yes – there is.” Her smile was tantalizing.

“Name it!” he demanded, eagerly.

“Stop being tragic. I don’t like you when you are tragic – or when you are talking nonsense about love. I have heard so much of it!”

“From me, I suppose?” he said, gloomily.

He had turned his head and she shot a quick, eloquent glance at him. “From you – and several others,” she said, deliberately.

There was a resentful, hurt look in his eyes when he turned and looked at her. “Just how many?” he demanded, somewhat gruffly.

“Jealous!” she said, shaking her finger at him. “Do you want a bill of particulars? Because if you do,” she added, looking demurely downward, “I should have to take several days to think it over. You see, a woman can’t catalogue everything men say to her – for they say so many silly things!”

“Love isn’t silly,” he declared. He looked rather fiercely at her. “What kind of a man do you like best?” he demanded.

She blushed. “I like a big man – about as big as you,” she said. “A man with fierce eyes that glower at a woman when she talks to him of love – she insisting that she hasn’t quite fallen in love – with him. I like a man who is jealous of the reputation of the woman he professes to love; a man who is jealous of other men; a man who isn’t so very good-looking, but who is a handsome man for all that – because he is so very manly; a man who will fight and risk his life for me.”

“Could you name such a man?” he said. There was a scornful gleam in his eyes.

“I am looking at him this minute!” she said.

Grinning, for he knew all along that she had been talking of him, he wheeled quickly and tried to catch her in his arms. But she slipped off the rock and was around on the other side of it, keeping it between them while he tried to catch her. Instinctively he realized that the chase was hopeless, but he persisted.

“I’ll never speak to you again if you catch me!” she warned, her eyes flashing.

“But you told me – ”

“That I liked you,” she interrupted. “And liking a man isn’t – ”

And then she paused and looked down, blushing, while Taylor, in the act of vaulting over the rock, collapsed and sat on it instead, red of face and embarrassed.

For within a dozen paces of them, and looking rather embarrassed and self-conscious, himself, though with a twinkle in his eyes that made Taylor’s cheeks turn redder – was Bud Hemmingway.

“I’m beggin’ your pardon,” said the puncher; “but I’ve come to tell you that Neil Norton is here – again. He’s been settin’ on the porch for an hour or two – he says. But I think he’s stretching it. Anyway, he’s tired of waitin’ for you – he says – an’ he’s been wonderin’ if you was goin’ to set on that boulder all day!”

Taylor slipped off the rock and started toward Bud, feigning resentment.

Bud, his face agitated by a broad grin, deliberately winked at Miss Harlan – though he spoke to Taylor.

“I’d be a little careful about how I went to jumpin’ off boulders – you might bust your ankle again!”

And then Taylor grinned at Miss Harlan – who pretended a severity she did not feel; while Bud, cackling mirthfully, went toward the ranchhouse.