“Now, look-a-here,” returned the doctor; “I’ve stood all the abuse I’m goin’ to. There ain’t another physician in this county that would a-came out here a second time with his eyes blinded and his hands tied--not if you had _ten_ friends dyin’. And I expect you to show me decent treatment.” He leaned forward across the table and looked the other man squarely in the face. “Last night you wanted hot water. To-night you want cold.” “Wal, excuse me, but I’m the best judge of what the sick gent needs. If I ain’t, why the dickens do you come after me?” For the space of a minute they stood in silence, face to face. Then, as if partly convinced, the man with the scar once more took up his oil can. When his quick, shuffling steps had died away the doctor tried another plan. He stooped over the sick man until his lips were close to the crack that ran down the full length of the blind door, and began to speak the name that the grief-crazed mother at the mine had spoken: “Laurie! Laurie! Laurie!” He listened. There was no sound within or without. He spoke again, louder: “Laurie!” First, a movement beyond the partition--a soft, rustling, creeping movement. Then, close to the wall, a little, weak, long-drawn sob! The doctor straightened, his heart pounding so furiously that it hurt him, his face hot with the joy of his discovery. Smiling, he glanced down. He looked into a pair of startled eyes that were staring up at him. “Who are you?” came the husky demand, and the sick man suddenly lifted himself to an elbow, almost as if he were about to leap from the bed. The doctor could only stare back. The man was conscious. Had he heard him? What was to be done? Before he could frame any course of action the man with the scar entered. “Your friend’s lots better,” announced the doctor, turning toward the door. “Come and see.” “That so?” The other crossed to the foot of the bed. “Nick,” began the sick man, speaking with great effort, “don’t you trust anybody. You get out of here. Do you understand? Never mind me. I’m going to die. Look at my nails.” He put out a trembling hand. “Don’t you worry,” answered the man with the scar. “The Doc came in blindfolded.” “You’re taking chances,” persisted the younger man. “Go--just--leave me--water, and--a gun.” He sank back. “You got to keep more quiet,” said the doctor. “Here.” He lifted a cup to the dry lips. When he left the bedside the man with the scar followed and leaned close. “Bill’s going to die,” he said in a low voice. “Look at his nails.” Instead, the doctor looked at the speaker. There was a sinister light in those little, alert eyes; a cruel twist to the thin mouth. And the whole expression of the scarred face bespoke a sudden determination--a fiendish determination. Bill was past saving. Soon the cabin would be left behind. And the doctor--why let him go back to the town? “He’s going to die,” repeated the man with the scar. “And you know it.”