Shorty waited—­still silent, the somber brooding light in his eyes; his jaws set a little tighter, his eyes filled with a deeper glow.  Shorty said no word to any man regarding the deadly intention that reigned in his heart.  He merely waited, watching Lawler, grimly determined that if Lawler died he would keep his promise to “come for” Warden.

But Shorty would not have found Warden in town.  On the night of the shooting Warden had taken the west-bound train, and the next day he was closeted with the governor and Hatfield—­the three of them sitting in the governor’s office, where, their faces pale, though expressing no regret, they sat and talked of the fight and conjectured over its probable consequences.

Singleton stayed close to the Two Diamond; and after the second day, Della Wharton rode to the ranch and sat brooding over the failure of her plans.  When Lawler had been brought into the hotel she had entertained a hope that the situation might be turned to her advantage.  But there had been something in Ruth Hamlin’s clear, direct eyes that had convinced her of the futility of attempting to poison her mind against Lawler by referring to her stay in the line cabin with Lawler.  She saw faith in Ruth’s eyes—­complete, disconcerting; and it had made her feel inferior, unworthy, cheap, and inconsequential.

On the fourth day Lawler regained consciousness.  The doctor had told them all that the crisis was at hand; that if the fever broke, marking the end of the delirium which had seized him, he would awaken normal mentally, though inevitably weak.  But if the fever did not break there would be no hope for him.

Mrs. Lawler, Ruth, and Shorty were in the room with Lawler when he opened his eyes.  For a long time the three stood, breathlessly watching as Lawler lay, staring in bewilderment at the ceiling, at the walls, and out of the windows, through which came a soft, subdued light.

Presently Lawler raised his head a trifle, saw them all, and smiled.  The clear light of reason was in his eyes.

“Mother, Ruth, and Shorty,” he said, weakly smiling.  “I’ve known for a long time that you were here.  But I couldn’t let you know.  Mother and Ruth—­and Shorty,” he repeated; and then, in a lower voice, that trailed off into a murmur as he closed his eyes and appeared to be falling asleep:  “Good old Shorty!”

Ruth and Mrs. Lawler were clasped in each other’s arms, joy unutterable in their eyes.  It was some time before they turned, to look at Shorty.

The tawny giant was standing near the foot of the bed.  His lips were quivering, his eyes were wet, his whole body seemed to be racked with emotion that he could not suppress.  He was making an heroic effort, though—­an effort that made the cords of his neck stand out lividly; that swelled his muscles into knotty bunches.

“Damn it!” he growled as he turned his head away from Ruth and Mrs. Lawler, so that they might not see what was reflected there; “there ain’t no sense of him gettin’ mush-headed about it!”