“I think that is as much as we can do until Uncle Peter comes,” she said when they had finished. “He’s the one who always looks after hurts in the family.” She left the room and did not return again. With nothing to do but sit beside the bed, Rawley found himself dwelling rather intently upon the strangeness of the situation. From the name spoken by Nevada, he knew that he must be in the camp of the enemy. At least, Jess Cramer was the name of Grandfather’s rival who figured unfortunately in that Fourth of July fight away back in ’66, and there was furthermore the warning of the code, “Take heed now ... on the hillside ... which is upon the bank of the river ... in the wilderness ... ye shall find ... him that ... is mine enemy.” Rawley had certainly not expected that the enemy would be Jess Cramer, but it might be so. He was repeating to himself that other warning, “He that keepeth his mouth keepeth his life,” when Nevada’s voice outside brought his attention back to the immediate exigencies of the case. He had already told her his name--she had repeated it to that flat-faced, hopelessly uninteresting “Aunt Gladys.” Nevada had taken particular pains, he remembered, to tell her aunt all about the mishap and to stress the service which he and Johnny Buffalo had rendered her and her grandmother. Was it because she wished to have some one beside herself who was well-disposed toward them? Partly that, he guessed, and partly because the easiest way to forestall curiosity is to give a full explanation at once. In Nevada’s rapid-fire account of the shooting, Rawley fancied that he had unconsciously been given a key to the situation and to the disposition of Aunt Gladys. He grinned while he filled his pipe and waited. Presently the deep, masculine voice he had heard outside talking with Nevada ceased, and a firm, measured tread was heard on the porch. A big man paused for a few seconds in the doorway and then came forward; a man as tall as Rawley, as broad of shoulder, as narrow hipped. He was dressed much as Rawley was dressed, except that his shirt was of cheaper, darker material and the breeches were earth-stained and old, as were his boots. He carried his head well up and looked down at Rawley calmly, appraisingly, with neither dislike nor favor in his face. He was smooth-shaven, and his jaw was square, his lips firm and somewhat bitter. Rawley rose and bowed and stood back from the bed. “My niece has told me all about the shooting,” he said, moving toward the bed. “I’m not a doctor, but I’ve had some experience with wounds. In this country we have to learn to take care of ourselves. Is your partner unconscious?”