Upon their arrival at the Hat Ranch a shout from Harley P. Hennage brought Sam Singer and Soft Wind to the front gate. Donna dismounted, tying Friar Tuck to the “zephyr” by the simple process of dropping the reins over his head, and hurried into the house to prepare her mother's old room for the reception of the wounded man. Bob McGraw was very limp and white as Harley P. and the Indian carried him in. The gambler undressed him while Sam Singer sprang aboard the velocipede and sped back toward town to meet the doctor. When the doctor arrived, he and Harley P. Hennage went into the bedroom, closing the door after them. Donna remained in the kitchen. She had already ordered Soft Wind to light a fire in the range and heat some water, and when presently the gambler came out to the kitchen he nodded his appreciation of her forethought ere he disappeared again with the hot water and a basin. In about an hour Doctor Taylor emerged, grip in hand. “I've done all I can for him, Miss Corblay” he told her. “I'm going up town to close the drug store and get a few things I may need, but I'll be back within an hour and spend the balance of the night with him.” “Will he live?” Donna's voice was calm, her tones hinting of nothing more than a friendly interest and sympathy; yet Harley P., watching her over the doctor's shoulder, guessed the stress of emotion under which she strove, for he, too, had seen her kiss Bob McGraw as he lay unconscious in her arms. “I fear he will not. The bullet ranged upward, perforating the top of his right lung, and went on clean through. I've seen men recover from wounds in more vital parts, but a .45-caliber bullet did the trick to our young friend, and a .45 tears quite a hole. He's big and strong and has a fighting chance, but I'm afraid--very much afraid--of internal hemorrhage, and traumatic pneumonia is bound to set in.” “He will not die!” said Donna. The doctor looked at her curiously. “I hope not” he said. “But he'll need a trained nurse and the best of care to pull through. It's long odds.” “That young feller's middle name is Long Odds.” Mr. Hennage had arrived at the conclusion that Donna needed a great deal of comforting at that moment. “He's lived on long odds ever since he came into this country.” “How do you know, Hennage?” the doctor demanded. “I tell--” “Long odds an' long guns, like birds o' feather always flock together” the gambler answered him drily, “This young feller wouldn't feel that he was gettin' any joy out o' life if he didn't tackle the nub end o' the deal. I'm layin' even money he comes up to the young lady's expectations.” Donna thanked him with her eyes, and Harley P. crossed to the door and looked down the long patio to where a small white wooden cross gleamed through the festoons of climbing roses. “He ought to have a nurse” the doctor advised Donna. “Very well, doctor. You will telephone to Bakersfield, or Los Angeles, will you not, and engage one?”