“I—­I reckon I am,” said Pete, grinning boyishly.

“Ashamed of yourself?”

“Nope!  A spoiled kid, like you said.  And I ain’t forgittin’ who spoiled me.”

The letter, the man downstairs and all that his presence implied, past and future possibilities, were forgotten in the brief glance that Doris gave him as she turned in the doorway.  And glory-be, she had taken the letter with her!  Pete gazed about the room to make sure that he was not dreaming.  No, the letter had disappeared—­and but a moment ago Doris had had it.  And she still had it.  “Well, she’ll know I got one or two friends, anyhow,” reflected Pete as he ate his dinner.  “When she sees how Jim talks—­and what he said Ma Bailey has to say to me—­mebby she’ll—­mebby—­Doggone it!  Most like she’ll just hand it back and smile and say she’s mighty glad—­and—­but that ain’t no sign that I’m the only guy that ever got shot up, and fixed up, and turned loose by a sure-enough angel . . .  Nope!  She ain’t a angel—­she’s real folks, like Ma Bailey and Andy and Jim.  If I ain’t darned careful I’m like to find I done rid my hoss into a gopher-hole and got throwed bad.”

Meanwhile “the man downstairs” was doing some thinking himself.  That morning he had visited police headquarters and inspected Pete’s gun and belongings—­noting especially the hand-carved holster and the heavy-caliber gun, the factory number of which he jotted down in his notebook.  Incidentally he had borrowed a Luger automatic from the miscellaneous collection of weapons taken from criminals, assured himself that it was not loaded, and slipped it into his coat-pocket.  Later he had talked with the officials, visited the Mexican lodging-house, where he had obtained a description of the man who had occupied the room with Pete, and stopping at a restaurant for coffee and doughnuts, had finally arrived at the hospital prepared to hear what young Annersley had to say for himself.

Sheriff Jim Owen, unofficially designated as “Sunny Jim” because of an amiable disposition, which in no way affected his official responsibilities, was a dyed-in-the-wool, hair-cinched, range-branded, double-fisted official, who scorned nickel-plated firearms, hard-boiled hats, fancy drinks, and smiled his contempt for the rubber-heeled methods of the city police.  Sheriff Owen had no rubber-heeled tendencies.  He was frankness itself, both in peace and in war.  It was once said of him, by a lank humorist of Sanborn, that Jim Owen never wasted any time palaverin’ when he was flirtin’ with death.  That he just met you with a gun in one hand and a smile in the other, and you could take your choice—­or both, if you was wishful.