"You're all wrong, chief," said Larry la Roche, and he grinned at Andrew. His submission now was perfect and complete. There was even a sort of worship in the bright eyes that looked at the new leader. "I hate to say it, but right as you mos' gener'ly are, you're wrong this time. He's done. He don't need no more lookin' to. Leave him be for an hour and he'll be finished. Also, that'll give him a chance to think. He needs a chance. Old Curley had a chance to think--took him four hours to kick out after Dozier plugged him. I heard what he had to say, and it wasn't pretty. I think maybe it'd be sort of interestin' to hear what Dozier has to say. Long about the time he gets thirsty. Eh, boys?" There was a snarl from the other three as they looked down at the wounded man, who did not speak a word. And Andrew knew that he was indeed alone with that crew, for the man whom he had just shot down was nearer to him than the members of Allister's gang. He spoke suddenly: "Jeff, take his head; Clune, take his feet. Carry him up to the cabin." They only stared at him. "Look here, captain," said Scottie in a soft voice, just a trifle thickened by whiskey, "are you thinking of taking him up there and tying him up so that he'll live through this?" And again the other three snarled softly. "You murdering hounds!" said Andrew. That was all. They looked at each other; they looked at the new leader. And the sight of his white face and his nervous right hand was too much for them. They took up the marshal and carried him to the cabin, his pony following like a dog behind. They brought him, without asking for directions, straight into the little rear room--Andrew's room. It was a sufficiently intelligible way of saying that this was his work and none of theirs. And not a hand lifted to aid him while he went to work with the bandaging. He knew little about such work, but the marshal himself, in a rather faint, but perfectly steady voice, gave directions. And in the painful cleaning of the wound he did not murmur once. Neither did he express the slightest gratitude. He kept following Andrew about the room with coldly curious eyes. In the next room the voices of the four were a steady, rumbling murmur. Now and then the glance of the marshal wandered to the door. When the bandaging was completed, he asked, "Do you know you've started a job you can't finish?" "Ah?" murmured Andrew. "Those four," said the marshal, "won't let you." Andrew smiled. "Are you easier now?" "Don't bother about me. I'll tell you what--I wish you'd get me a drink of water." "I'll send one of the boys." "No, get it yourself. I want to say something to them while you're gone." Andrew had risen up from his knees. He now studied the face of the marshal steadily. "You want 'em to come in here and drill you, eh?" he said. "Why?" The other nodded. "I've given up hope once; I've gone through the hardest part of dying; let them finish the job now." "Tomorrow you'll feel differently."