The tears were running down his unshaven cheeks. He did not
return until later in the day. Then he asked the surgeon that
oft-repeated question.
"I don't see how he can recover," said the surgeon quietly. "Of course
there's a slim chance. Don't build on it, though."
"If there's a chance, I reckon he will freeze to it," said Overland.
"From what he was ramblin' about when he was off his head, I reckon he's
got somethin' more to live for than just himself."
"Has he any relatives?" queried the surgeon.
"Nope. Except me. But he was expectin' to have, I guess. And I tell you
what, Doc, she's worth gettin' shot up for."
"Too bad! Too bad," muttered the surgeon.
"What's too bad, eh?"
The other shook his head. "If there is any one that he would care to
see, or that would care to see him, you had better write at once."
Overland was stunned. The doctor's word had been given at last, and it
was not a word of hope.
Overland Red bowed to the doctor's opinion, but his heart was
unconquerable. He wrote a long letter to his old-time friend, Brand
Williams, of the Moonstone Ranch. The letter was curiously worded. It
did not mention Louise Lacharme, nor Mrs. Stone, nor the rancher.
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