He looked down upon the figure on the porch; in his voice had been a fine humane quality that set the muscles of the listening woman's throat contracting.
"Say, Bruce, he's bleedin'!"
On the man's announced discovery the group outside again became compact about the unconscious man and the tall cowboy squatted beside him quickly.
"Get back out of th' light, boys," he said, quietly, and the curious men moved. "Hum ... I'm a sheepherder, if somebody ain't nicked him in th' arm, boys! I'll be—
"Say, he must of laid on that arm an' stopped th' blood. It's clotted.... Oh, damn! It's bleedin' worse. Say, I'll have to get him inside where we can have him fixed up before that breaks open again. Wonder how much he's bled—"
He rose and moved to the door, pulled open the screen quickly. He made one step across the threshold and then paused between strides, for before him in the darkness of the hallway a woman's face stood out like a cameo. It was white, made whiter by the few feeble rays of the light outside that struggled into the entry; the eyes were great, dark splotches, the lips were parted; one hand was at the chin and about the whole suggested posture of her body was a tensity, an anxiety, a helplessness that startled the man ... that, and her beauty. For a moment they stood so, face to face, the one in silhouette, the other in black and white; the one surprised, only, but the other shrinking in terror.
"I ... he ..."
Then, giving no articulate coherence to the idea that was in his mind, Bruce Bayard stepped through the doorway to his left and entered the office, as though he had not seen the woman at all. He looked about, returned to the hallway, gazed almost absently at the stairway where he had seen that troubled countenance and which was now a blank, hesitated a moment and stepped out to join the others.
"I heard somebody shoot, when we was comin' up from th' depot," someone was saying when Bayard broke in:
"Nobody here. Anybody seen Charley?"
"Here's his dad," Clary said, as a fat, wheezing man made his way importantly into the group.
"Uncle, I want to get a room," Bayard said, "to take this here man to so I can wash him up an' look after his arm. He's been shot. I passed Doc on th' road goin' out when I come in, so I'll just try my hand as a veterinary myself. Can you fix me up?"
"All right! Right here! Bring him in. I've got a room; a nice dollar room," the man wheezed as he stumped into the building. "No disturbance, mind, but I've got a room ... dollar room ..."—and the screen door slapped shut behind him.
"He won't die on you, Bruce," the man with a moustache said, straightening, after inspecting the ragged, dirt-filled wound, and laughing lightly. "It just stung him a little. There's a lot of disorderly conduct left in him yet, an' it's a wonder he ain't been ventilated before."
"Yeah.... Well, we'll take him up and look him over," Bayard said, his face serious, and stooped to gather the burden in his arms.
"Want any help, Bruce?" Tommy asked.
"Not on this trip, thanks. A good sleep and a stiff cussin' out'll help a little I guess. Mebbe he's learnt a lesson an' he may go back home an' behave himself."
He shouldered open the screen door and, led by the wheezing landlord who carried a lamp at a reckless angle in his trembling hand, started clumping up the resounding stairway, while the group that had been about the lamp-post drifted off into the darkness. Only the sorrel horse, Abe, remained, bridle-reins down, one hip slumped, great, intelligent eyes watching occasional figures that passed, ears moving to catch the scattered sounds that went up toward the Arizona stars.
CHAPTER III
THE LODGER NEXT DOOR
"Now, this is fine, Uncle," Bayard said, as he stood erect and surveyed the lax body he had deposited on the bed.
His great height made the low, tiny room seem lower, smaller, and in the pale lamplight the fat hotel proprietor peered up into his face with little greedy green eyes, chewing briskly with his front teeth, scratching the fringe of red whiskers speculatively.
"Well, Bayard, you're all right," he blurted out, huskily, as if he had reached that decision only after lengthy debate. "Th' room's a dollar, but I'll wait till mornin' as a favor to you. I wouldn't trust most cowboys, but your reputation's gild-edged, fine!"
"Thanks! Seein' nobody's around to overhear, I'll take a chance an' return th' compliment."
And as the other, turning in the doorway, looked back to determine, if he could, the meaning of that last remark, Bayard stooped and gingerly lifted the wounded forearm from which the sleeve had been rolled back.
"What a lookin' human bein'!" he whispered slowly, a moment later, shaking his head and letting his whole-hearted disgust find expression in deep lines about his mouth, as he scanned the bloated, bruised, muddied face below him. "You've got just about as low down, Pardner, as anybody can get! Lord, that face of yourn would scare the Devil himself ... even if it is his own work!"
He kicked out of his chaps, flung off jumper and vest, rolled up his sleeves and, turning to the rickety washstand, sloshed water into the bowl from the cracked pitcher and vigorously applied lather to his hands and forearms. From the next room came the sounds of a person moving; the creak of a board, the tinkle of a glass, even the low brushing of a garment being hung on a hook, for the partitions were of inch boards covered only by wallpaper.
"Th' privacies of this here establishment ain't exactly perfect, are they?" the man asked, raising his voice and smiling. "I've got a friend here who needs to have things done for him an' he may wake up and object, but it ain't nothin' serious so don't let us disturb your sleep any more'n you can help," he added and paused, stooped over, to listen for an answer.
None came; no further sound either; the person in the other room seemed to be listening, too. Bayard, after the interval of silence, shrugged his shoulders, filled the bowl with clean water, placed it on a wooden-bottomed chair which held the lamp and sat down on the edge of the bed with soap and towels beside him.
"I'll wash out this here nick, first," he muttered. "Then, I'll scrub up that ugly mug.... Ugh!" He made a wry face as he again looked at the distorted, smeared countenance.
He bathed the forearm carefully, then centered his attention on the wound.
"Ho-ho! Went deeper than I thought.... Full of dirt an' ... clot ... an'...."
He stopped his muttering and left off his bathing of the wound suddenly and clamped his fingers above the gash, for, as he had washed away the clotted blood and caked dirt, a thin, sharp stream of blood had spurted out from the ragged tear in the flesh.
"He got an artery, did he? Huh! When you dropped, you laid on that arm or you'd be eatin' breakfast to-morrow in a place considerable hotter than Arizona," Bayard muttered.
He looked about him calculatingly as though wondering what was best to do first, and the man on the bed stirred uneasily.
"Lay still, you!"
The other moaned and squirmed and threatened to jerk his arm free.
"You don't amount to much, Pardner, but I can't hold you still and play doctor by myself if ...
"Say, friend,"—raising his voice. "You, in th' next room; would you mind comin' in here a minute? I've took down more rope than I handle right easy."
He turned his head to listen better and through the thin partition came again the sound of movements. Feet stepped quickly, lightly, on the noisy