And then a great number of voices began whispering in a corner of the chamber. I cried out in terror, and then the door opened and a woman entered, carrying a candle, shaded with one hand, the light of it striking upon her freckled face and yellow hair. It was Mrs. Laughlin, and she sat down by me and took my hand, feeling my pulse, and ran her rough palm across my brow. She may have been a belligerent woman, and had many "tiffs" with her husband, but I cannot tell you how soothing was her rough touch to me then,—rough, but extremely kind. The whisperings kept on, but very faint now,—fainter and fainter in my ears like far echoes, and, holding her bony hand, I fell asleep. The fever of the mountains, the weariness of the way, the fear of pursuit, the smell of powder, and the sight of dead men’s eyes,—all these I had braced myself against. But now I steeled myself no longer. Now I rested, I, who had feared much and yet been strong (which I have heard persons say is the greatest form of bravery,—the coward’s bravery), I rested fearless, clinging to this worn woman’s hand. *CHAPTER XXVII* _*The Beginning of the End*_ I feel somehow that I have to apologise for "giving in" that way. I should have liked to figure before you like a cast-iron hero. But when I set out to tell you this story I made up my mind to tell the truth about all those concerned in it—myself included. I could not understand how Apache Kid kept so fresh through it all. But, of course, you remember what he told me of his life, and he was, as the saying is, "hard as nails." Yet he avoided commiserating me on my condition, being a man quick enough to understand that I resented this break-down. He even went the length of telling me, as he sat in my room, that he felt "mighty rocky after that trip," himself. And when the doctor pronounced that I might get up, he told me that I was getting off very easily. On two points I had to question Apache Kid and his answers to my questions gave me a further insight into his character. The first of these matters was regarding the wealth we had brought with us from the Lost Cabin Mine. "I have done nothing about it yet," said he. "I thought it advisable for us to go together to the bank." I looked my surprise, I suppose. "Then you have no idea what it amounts to yet?" I asked. "No," said he. "You know it will neither increase nor diminish with waiting." "But why did you wait?" "O," he said lightly, "if a man cannot wait for his partner getting well, and do the thing ship-shape, he must be very impatient." "You don’t seem anxious, even, to know what you are really worth." "I fear not," said he. "O, man, can’t you see that once we know, to a five-cent piece, what all that loot is worth, we are through with the adventure and there’s no more fun to be had? I’m never happy when I get a thing. It’s in the hunting that I find relief."