“Did the doc say so?”

Doris shook her head.  “No, Dr. Andover thinks he has a chance, but I know that he will get well.”

“Does Pete know that I been here?”

“No.  The doctor thought it best not to say anything about that yet.”

“I reckon that’s right.”

“Is he your son?” asked Doris.

“No.  Just a kid that used to—­work for me.”

And without further word, The Spider hobbled to the doorway and was gone.

Hour after hour Doris sat by the cot watching the faintly flickering life that, bereft of conscious will, fought for existence with each deep-drawn breath.  About two in the morning Pete’s breathing seemed to stop.  Doris felt the hesitant throb of the pulse and, rising, stepped to the hall and telephoned for the house-surgeon.

“Caught it just in time,” he said to the nurse as he stepped back and watched the patient react to the powerful heart-stimulant.  Pete’s breathing became more regular.

The surgeon had been gone for a few minutes when Pete’s heavy lids opened.

“It—­was gittin’—­mighty dark—­down there,” he whispered.  And Pete stared up at her, his great dark eyes slowly brightening under the artificial stimulant.  Doris bent over him and smoothed his hair back from his forehead.  “I’m the—­the Ridin’ Kid—­from—­Powder River,” he whispered hoarsely.  “I kin ride ’em comin’ or goin’—­but I don’t wear no coat next journey.  My hand caught in the pocket.”  He glanced toward the doorway.  “But we fooled ’em.  Ed got away, so I reckon I’ll throw in with you, Spider.”  Pete tried to lift himself up, but the nurse pressed him gently back.  Tiny beads of sweat glistened on his forehead.  Doris put her hand on the back of his.  At the touch his lips moved.  “Boca was down there—­in the dark—­smilin’ and tellin’ me it was all right and to come ahead,” he whispered.  “I was tryin’ to climb out—­of that there—­canon . . .  Andy throwed his rope . . .  Caught it just in time . . .  And Andy he laughs.  Reckon he didn’t know—­I was—­all in . . .”  Pete breathed deeply, muttered, and drifted into an easy sleep.  Doris watched him for a while, fighting her own desire to sleep.  She knew that the crisis was past, and with that knowledge came a physical let-down that left her worn and desperately weary:  not because she had been on duty almost twenty-four hours without rest—­she was young and could stand that—­but because she had given so much of herself to this case from the day Pete had been brought in—­through the operation which was necessarily savage, and up to the moment when he had fallen asleep, after having passed so close to the border of the dark Unknown.  And now that she knew he would recover, she felt strangely disinterested in her work at the hospital.  But being a rather practical young person, never in the least morbid, she attributed this unusual indifference to her own condition.  She would not allow herself