“Thank God!” said he, and flung Lusk's pistol down. The man, deranged and encouraged by drink, had come across the doctor, delayed him, threatened him with his pistol, and when he had torn it away, had left him suddenly and vanished. But Barker had feared, and come after him here. He glanced at the woman slumbering motionless beside the two men. The husband's brief courage had gone, and he lay beneath McLean, who himself could not rise. Barker pulled them apart. “Lin, boy, you're not hurt?” he asked, affectionately, and lifted the cow-puncher. McLean sat passive, with dazed eyes, letting himself be supported. “You're not hurt?” repeated Barker. “No,” answered the cow-puncher, slowly. “I guess not.” He looked about the room and at the door. “I got interrupted,” he said. “You'll be all right soon,” said Barker. “Nobody cares for me!” cried Lusk, suddenly, and took to querulous weeping. “Get up,” ordered Barker, sternly. “Don't accuse me, Governor,” screamed Lusk. “I'm innocent.” And he rose. Barker looked at the woman and then at the husband. “I'll not say there was much chance for her,” he said. “But any she had is gone through you. She'll die.” “Nobody cares for me!” repeated the man. “He has learned my boy to scorn me.” He ran out aimlessly, and away into the night, leaving peace in the room. “Stay sitting,” said Barker to McLean, and went to Mrs. Lusk. But the cow-puncher, seeing him begin to lift her toward the bed without help, tried to rise. His strength was not sufficiently come back, and he sank as he had been. “I guess I don't amount to much,” said he. “I feel like I was nothing.” “Well, I'm something,” said Barker, coming back to his friend, out of breath. “And I know what she weighs.” He stared admiringly through his spectacles at the seated man. The cow-puncher's eyes slowly travelled over his body, and then sought Barker's face. “Doc,” said he, “ain't I young to have my nerve quit me this way?” His Excellency broke into his broad smile. “I know I've racketed some, but ain't it ruther early?” pursued McLean, wistfully. “You six-foot infant!” said Barker. “Look at your hand.” Lin stared at it--the fingers quivering and bloody, and the skin grooved raw between them. That was the buckle of her belt, which in the struggle had worked round and been held by him unknowingly. Both his wrists and his shirt were ribbed with the pink of her sashes. He looked over at the bed where lay the woman heavily breathing. It was a something, a sound, not like the breath of life; and Barker saw the cow-puncher shudder. “She is strong,” he said. “Her system will fight to the end. Two hours yet, maybe. Queer world!” he moralized. “People half killing themselves to keep one in it who wanted to go--and one that nobody wanted to stay!”