"Where is he?" she asked, with a swift look around.

He pointed toward the larger of the two cottages. With Hillyer and Smythe silently following, she ran to the cottage, and through the open door. There she found herself in a bare, uncarpeted room, furnished only with two chairs and a table. On the table lay a faded and battered gray hat. For an instant her gaze rested on it, and a lump rose in her throat. But she resolutely turned away, tightening her lips.

There were two inner doors, one of which, ajar, revealed a glimpse of brightly polished pans hanging on the wall. The other door was closed.

After an instant of hesitation, she walked straight toward it.

"Marion!" called Hillyer warningly.

She did not heed him, but turned the k.n.o.b, softly opened the door, and with Robert and Smythe at her heels, stepped into a dimly lighted room where the aroma of a pine log blazing in the fireplace mingled with the pungent odor of ammonia. Smythe was quick to observe, over Marion's shoulder, that the room was a sort of library and bedroom combined, carpeted in dark red, the walls papered in red also, and the windows curtained with heavy tapestry silk of the same rich hue. There were low bookcases on two sides of the room, with pictures above them; several marble statuettes on the bookcases; and a little jade Buddha beside a two-foot bronze G.o.d of terrifying aspect on the mantelpiece.

In the middle of the apartment stood a solid library table, of which the cover was a curious strip of faded yellow silk embroidered with a dragon in green, a fragment of an old Chinese banner.

At the left of the door, its head against the wall, was a bra.s.s bed in which a figure moved restlessly under the covers. Near the head of the bed, on the side nearest the door, stood the Indian, his stolid, bronzed face turned toward Marion as she entered. On the other side, holding one of Haig's hands, knelt Slim Jim in his blue silks, his yellowish face as expressionless as Pete's, except for an alert and questioning look in his eyes. There was no sound except the low crackling of the fire, and the rasp of heavy breathing, with sharp catches in it that spoke eloquently of pain.

Marion stepped to Pete's side, and looked down into the face of Philip Haig. In the dim light it had the pallor of death, with the parted lips and the staring eyes of the dead, or the dying. But he breathed; and presently her steady, searching, pitying gaze brought his eyes to meet her own, and she saw that they were living eyes, though clouded and darkened with agony. Almost was she on her knees, weeping over him, regardless of those in the doorway watching her. And it was not their presence so much as the necessity for action that restrained and steadied her. She did not even speak his name; but after her one long look, she turned away, and with every outward sign of calm, removed her gloves and hat and coat, and placed them on a chair in a corner of the room. Then she beckoned to Pete, who followed her, with Smythe and Hillyer, into the bare outer room.

"Close the door, please!" she commanded quietly.

Smythe closed it.

"Where is he hurt?" she asked the Indian.

"Here." He laid a hand on his stomach.

"Was he unconscious?"

"Yes. Long time."

"How long has he been like that--awake?"

"Maybe two hours."

"What have you done? What have you given him?"

"Whisky."

"Nothing else?"

"Water. Ammonia on face and breast."

"Was there blood?"

"Yes. From mouth."

She had another struggle then, and the tears started in spite of all that she could do. But she conquered them.

"Much blood?"

"No. Little, only at first."

"Thank you, Pete." Then, turning to Hillyer: "I want you, Robert, please, to drive home, and tell Mrs. Huntington to make up a bundle of the things I shall need. Wait! A pencil and a bit of paper, please."

For a moment he did not move to comply.

"What are you going to do, Marion?" he asked, his voice shaking slightly with the effort of speaking calmly.

"I'm going to nurse him," she replied, meeting his look without flinching.

"But, Marion! I don't--"

"Pencil and paper, Robert!" she said firmly.

He tore a leaf from a notebook, and gave it to her with his pencil.

"Thank you," she said; and seated herself at the table to write.

But there was the dilapidated hat again--so stained and soiled, a crumpled, tragic, intimate thing--arresting her. How it had filled her dreams! How she had laughed at it, fondly, tenderly, as a mother smiles at the battered school hat of her boy! Once, she had fancied it hanging on the pink wall in her room, a trophy, with a ribbon tied around its sweated band. And now she wanted to grab it up, and hug it to her breast. But she only lifted it gently, and placed it a little farther away, on the other side of the table. Then she made her notes.

"There, Robert!" she said, rising, and handing the list to him.

"Claire will know where to find them."

He took the paper mechanically, his eyes fixed on Marion.

"Will you come down, to the car for a moment?" he asked.

She saw the look, and softened under it. But she could not answer his questions then.

"No," she said. "Later, if you wish it."

For a moment he hesitated. But he could say no more in the presence of Smythe and Pete, though they were talking together at the other side of the room. So he moved slowly away, but was suddenly stopped by a cry from Marion.

"Oh! Oh!" she exclaimed. "Why didn't somebody--why didn't I think of it before? The car? Run, Robert! Drive down the road toward the lake.

You'll overtake the sorrels--or meet them. Bring the doctor in the car. Fast, please!"

Hillyer, without another word, ran and leaped into the automobile, and was soon bringing the echoes out of the hills again. He sank low in the seat, and fixed his eyes on the road that stretched out blinding white in the sunlight.

CHAPTER XIV

COALS OF FIRE

Seth was oiling a pair of boots on the veranda, while Claire talked to him about Hillyer, who had pleased her immeasurably by his devotion to Marion, and even more, of course, by his generous compliments to herself. She was delicately calling Seth's attention to the pleasure, the profits, and the sanct.i.ty of politeness, when she caught sight of Hillyer's automobile emerging slowly and silently from the trees that concealed the road at a little distance from the corrals.

"There he is now!" she exclaimed. And then, an instant later: "Why, he's alone!"

She stood up excitedly, and Seth also, dropping a half-oiled boot on the floor.