The sound of moving feet and the ring of spurs reached him; then a boot was set on the threshold and Bruce Bayard stepped into the room. He was rubbing his face with a towel and in the other hand was a razor and shaving brush. He had been scraping his chin in the shade of the ash tree that waved lazily in the warm breeze and tossed fantastically changing shadows through the far window. He looked up as he entered and encountered the gaze from these swollen, inflamed eyes set in the bruised face of Ned Lytton. "Hello!" he cried in surprise. "You're awake?" He put down the things he carried and crossed the room to the bedside. "Yes.... For God's sake, haven't you got a drink?"--in a painful rasp. "I have; one; just one, for you," the other replied, left the room and came back with a tumbler a third filled with whiskey. He propped Lytton's head with one hand and held the glass to his misshapen lips, while he guzzled greedily. "More ... another ..." Lytton muttered a moment after he was back on his pillow. "Seems to me you'd ought to know you've punished enough of this by now," the rancher said, standing with his hands on his hips and looking at the distorted expression of suffering on Lytton's face. The sick man moved his head slightly in negation. Then, after a moment: "How'd I get here? Who are you ... anyhow?" "Don't you know me?" The fevered eyes held on him, studying laboriously, and a smile struggled to bend the puffed lips. "Sure ... you're the fellow, Nora's fellow ... the girl in the hotel. I tried to ... and she said you'd beat me up...." Something intended for a laugh sounded from his throat. The face of the man above him flushed slightly and the jaw muscles bulged under his cheek. "Where in hell am I? How'd I get here?" "I brought you here last night. You'd gone the limit in town. Somebody tried to shoot you an' got as far's your arm. I brought you here to try to make somethin' like a man of you,"--ending with a hint of bitterness in spite of the whimsical smile with which he watched the effect of his last words. Lytton stirred. "Damned arm!" he muttered, thickly, evidently conscious of only physical things. "I thought something was wrong. It hurts like.... Say, whatever your name is, haven't you got another drink?" "My name is Bayard; you know me when you're sober. You're at my ranch, th' Circle A. You've had your drink for to-day." "May--Bayard. Say, for God's sake, Bayard, you ain't going to let me.... Why, like one gentleman to another, when your girl Nora, the waitress ... said you'd knock me ... keep away. I wasn't afraid.... Didn't know she was yours.... I quit when I knew.... Treated you like a gentleman. Now why ... don't you treat me like a gentle ... give me a drink. I kept away from your wo--" "Oh, shut up!"