Ruth herself flew to the house. She forgot that she was exhausted, forgot that she had had neither supper nor breakfast. The call for action carried her out of her own needs. Before the men had arrived with the wounded outlaw she was ready with sponges, cold water, and bandages. After Falkner had been made as comfortable as possible, Ruth left him in charge of Norma Tait and retired to the pantry in search of food. When she had eaten she left word with Mrs. Stovall that she was going to sleep, but wanted to be called when Doctor Irwin arrived at the ranch. At the housekeeper’s knock she awoke three hours later, refreshed and fit for anything. Ruth had not lived the past two years in outdoor Wyoming for nothing. She had grown tough of muscle and strong of body, so that she had gained the power of recuperation with very little rest. Having examined the patient, Doctor Irwin retired with Ruth and Sheriff Matson to the front porch. “What do you think?” asked the young woman anxiously. “H’mp! Think—just missed a funeral,” he snorted. “Bullet struck half inch from artery.” “But he’ll get well?” “I reckon. Know better later.” “When can I move him?” asked Matson. “Don’t know. Not for a week or two, anyhow. You in a hurry to get him back to that hell where he came from, Sheriff?” bristled the old doctor. “I’m not responsible for the pen, Doc,” answered Matson evenly. “And by all accounts I reckon Hal Falkner makes his own hell there. But I’m responsible for turning him over to the warden. If I could get him down to Wagon Wheel——” “Well, you can’t!” snapped Irwin. “He’ll stay right here till I think it safe to move him. It’s my say-so, Aleck.” “Sure. And while he’s at the Circle Diamond I’ll leave a couple of men to help nurse him. He might hurt himself trying to move before he’s really fit to travel,” the sheriff announced with a grim little smile. Ruth was head nurse herself. For years she had held a bitter resentment against Falkner, but it could not stand against the thing that had happened. Put to the acid test, the man had sacrificed his chances of escape to save her and the baby. Alone, he could have reached the Yerby ranch and gone through one of the passes before Matson had closed it. With her and the baby as encumbrances he had not dared try the deeper snow of the upper hills. Because of his choice he lay in Rowan’s room, wounded, condemned to a return to Rawlins. Never in his rough and turbulent life had the man been treated with such gentle consideration. The clean linen and dainty food were external effects of an atmosphere wholly alien to his experience. Here were kindness and friendly smiles and an unimaginable tenderness. All three of the women were good to him in their own way, but it was for Ruth that his hungry eyes watched the door. She brought the baby with her one day, after the fever had left him, and set the youngster on the bed, where the invalid could watch him play.