Della instantly took charge of Lawler.  Which means that she set seriously to work with him, while Shorty stood by, his arms folded over his huge chest, one hand caressing his chin, grimly watching.

Shorty continued to watch.  For many days he stood guard over his “boss”—­a somber, brooding figure, silent, imperturbable.  When he moved it was only to walk slowly up and down the hall, or downstairs to take his meals.  At other times he would stand at the bedside looking down at Lawler’s closed eyes and ashen face; or he would sit on the edge of a chair and watch him, intently, with stoic calm, his face as expressionless as a stone image.

Mrs. Lawler came early the next morning—­after the doctor had told Della and Shorty there was a fighting chance for Lawler; and Ruth Hamlin.  Shorty’s eyes grew moist as he watched Mrs. Lawler and Ruth as they stood by the unconscious man; and his voice was low and gruff when, during the day Mrs. Lawler asked him for particulars.

“That’s all there was to it, ma’am,” he said in conclusion.  “The boss oughtn’t to have busted in that shack like he did, knowin’ Antrim was there—­an’ givin’ the scum a chance to take the first shot at him.  But he done it.  An’ he done the same thing to Warden—­offered him the first shot.  Ma’am, I never heard the beat of it!  I’ve got nerve—­as the sayin’ is.  But—­Lordy!”

And Shorty became silent again.

For three days Lawler remained unconscious.  And during that interval there were no disturbing sounds to agitate the deathlike quiet of the sickroom.  Riders glided into town from various points of the compass and stepped softly as they moved in the street—­whispering or talking in low tones.  The universal topic was the fight, and Lawler’s condition.  On the second day of Lawler’s unconsciousness a keen-eyed man stepped off the east-bound train and made his way to the hotel.

“I’m Metcalf of the News, in the capital,” he told Keller, the proprietor.  And Keller quietly ushered the newspaperman upstairs, where the latter stood for a long time until Mrs. Lawler opened the door of the sickroom for him.  Metcalf entered, looked down at Lawler, and then drew Shorty aside where, in a whispered conversation he obtained the particulars of the fight and the wounding of Lawler.  He took the west-bound train that night.

A pall seemed to have settled over Willets.  The atmosphere was tense, strained.  Riders from Caldwell’s ranch, from Sigmund’s, from Lester’s—­and from other ranches came in; and important-looking men from various sections of the state alighted from the trains at the station and lingered long in the dingy foyer of the hotel.  One of these was recognized by Keller as McGregor, secretary of the State Central Committee of Lawler’s party.  And Keller noted that McGregor wore a worried look and that he scowled continually.

Willets waited; the riders who came into town waited; it seemed to the residents of Willets that the whole state waited, with its collective gaze upon the little room in the hotel where a man lay, fighting for his life.