He strode carefully, bent with the weight of that
shattered body. He felt that he had lost more than the visible Collie;
that he had lost the inspiration, the ideal, the grip on hope that had
held him toward the goal of good endeavor. His old-time recklessness
swept down upon him like the tides, submerging his better self. Yet he
held steadily to one idea. He would do all that he could to save
Collie's life. Failing in that ... there would be a red reckoning. After
that he would not care what came.
Already he had planned to send Winthrop, in his big car, for a doctor.
The car was at the desert town, where a liveryman accepted a royal
monthly toll in advance to care for it.
At the tent Overland laid Collie on the blankets, bathed and bandaged
the wound, and watched his low pulse quicken to the stimulant that he
gave him in small doses.
"It's the shock as much as the wound," said Overland. "He got it close,
and from behind--_from behind_ do you hear?"
Winthrop, startled by the other's intensity, stammered: "What shall I
do? What shall I do?"
Overland bit his nails and scowled. "You will ride to town. Collie's
hoss is here. Take the Guzzuh and burn the road for Los and get a
doctor.
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