NOTHING NEW

Glendin and Dr. Young struck out for the ranch of William Drew, but they held a moderate pace, and it was already grey dawn before they arrived; yet even at that hour several windows of the house were lighted.  They were led directly to Drew’s room.

The big man welcomed them at the door with a hand raised for silence.  He seemed to have aged greatly during the night, but between the black shadows beneath and the shaggy brows above, his eyes gleamed more brightly than ever.  About his mouth the lines of resolution were worn deep by his vigil.

“He seems to be sleeping rather well—­though you hear his breathing?”

It was a soft, but ominously rattling sound.

“Through the lungs,” said the doctor instantly.

The cowpuncher was completely covered, except for his head and feet.  On the latter, oddly enough, were still his grimy boots, blackening the white sheets on which they rested.

“I tried to work them off—­you see the laces are untied,” explained Drew, “but the poor fellow recovered consciousness at once, and struggled to get his feet free.  He said that he wants to die with his boots on.”

“You tried his pulse and his temperature?” whispered the doctor.

“Yes.  The temperature is not much above normal, the pulse is extremely rapid and very faint.  Is that a bad sign?”

“Very bad.”

Drew winced and caught his breath so sharply that the others stared at him.  It might have been thought that he had just heard his own death sentence pronounced.

He explained:  “Ben has been with me a number of years.  It breaks me up to think of losing him like this.”

The doctor took the pulse of Calamity with lightly touching fingers that did not waken the sleeper; then he felt with equal caution the forehead of Ben.

“Well?” asked Drew eagerly.

“The chances are about one out of ten.”

It drew a groan from the rancher.

“But there is still some hope.”

The doctor shook his head and carefully unwound the bandages.  He examined the wound with care, and then made a dressing, and recovered the little purple spot, so small that a five-cent piece would have covered it.

“Tell me!” demanded Drew, as Young turned at length.

“The bullet passed right through the body, eh?”

“Yes.”

“He ought to have been dead hours ago.  I can’t understand it.  But since he’s still alive we’ll go on hoping.”

“Hope?” whispered Drew.

It was as if he had received the promise of heaven, such brightness fell across his haggard face.

“There’s no use attempting to explain,” answered Young.  “An ordinary man would have died almost instantly, but the lungs of some of these rangers seem to be lined with leather.  I suppose they are fairly embalmed with excessive cigarette smoking.  The constant work in the open air toughens them wonderfully.  As I said, the chances are about one out of ten, but I’m only astonished that there is any chance at all.”