Already the subtle atmosphere of sickness had come upon the room.  The shades of the windows were drawn evenly, and low down, so that the increasing brightness of the morning could only temper, not wholly dismiss the shadows.  Night is the only reality of the sick-bed; the day is only a long evening, a waiting for the utter dark.  The doctor’s little square satchel of instruments, vials, and bandages lay open on the table; he had changed the apartment as utterly as he had changed his face by putting on great, horn-rimmed spectacles.  They gave an owl-like look to him, an air of omniscience.  It seemed as if no mortal ailment could persist in the face of such wisdom.

“Well?” whispered Drew.

“You can speak out, but not loudly,” said the doctor calmly.  “He’s delirious; the fever is getting its hold.”

“What do you think?”

“Nothing.  The time hasn’t come for thinking.”

He bent his emotionless eye closer on the big rancher.

“You,” he said, “ought to be in bed this moment.”

Drew waved the suggestion aside.

“Let me give you a sedative,” added Young.

“Nonsense.  I’m going to stay here.”

The doctor gave up the effort; dismissed Drew from his mind, and focused his glance on the patient once more.  Calamity Ben was moving his head restlessly from side to side, keeping up a gibbering mutter.  It rose now to words.

“Joe, a mule is to a hoss what a woman is to a man.  Ever notice?  The difference ain’t so much in what they do as what they don’t do.  Me speakin’ personal, I’ll take a lot from any hoss and lay it to jest plain spirit; but a mule can make me mad by standin’ still and doin’ nothing but wablin’ them long ears as if it understood things it wasn’t goin’ to speak about.  Y’ always feel around a mule as if it knew somethin’ about you—­had somethin’ on you—­and was laughin’ soft and deep inside.  Damn a mule!  I remember—­”

But here he sank into the steady, voiceless whisper again, the shadow of a sound rather than the reality.  It was ghostly to hear, even by daylight.

“Will it keep up long?” asked Drew.

“Maybe until he dies.”

“I’ve told you before; it’s impossible for him to die.”

The doctor made a gesture of resignation.

He explained:  “As long as this fever grows our man will steadily weaken; it shows that he’s on the downward path.  If it breaks—­why, that means that he will have a chance—­more than a chance—­to get well.  It will mean that he has enough reserve strength to fight off the shock of the wound and survive the loss of the blood.”

“It will mean,” said Drew, apparently thinking aloud, “that the guilt of murder does not fall on Anthony.”

“Who is Anthony?”

The wounded man broke in; his voice rose high and sharp:  “Halt!”

He went on, in a sighing mumble:  “Shorty—­help—­I’m done for!”