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"And you carried the story of Shanklin's deception and fraud to my son," nodded the Governor, fixing a severe eye on Ten-Gallon, "and he sought the gambler for an explanation?" "Well, he was goin' to haul the old crook over the fire," admitted Ten-Gallon, somewhat uneasy under the old man's eye.
He says we'll be on the gas-line tourist route to the coast after the trail has been marked and drained and graded up well. But mostly the automobile means freedom to us. We're no longer citizens of Homeburg but of the congressional district. We're neighbors to towns we hadn't heard of ten years ago, and the horizon nowadays for most of us is located at the end of a ten-gallon tank of gasoline.
"Well, you got it straight," the doctor told him. Ten-Gallon slued in his saddle, slouching over confidentially. "Say, it ain't any of my business, maybe, but how much did you git out of this pile of rocks?" "It isn't any of your business, but I'll tell you. I got more out of it than this whole blasted country's worth!" Slavens replied.
"He sure did," Ten-Gallon agreed; "and he done it right! I know all about you" nodding to the doctor "and what happened to you back of that tent in Comanche that night. Shanklin had it in for you ever since you showed up his game the night that sucker feller was goin' to put down that wad of money. He'd been layin' for you, one way and another, for a couple of days or so.
"'We'll have to soak that feller, he says, 'and git him out of the way. Jerry he agreed to it, and they had men out after you all that day and night, but they didn't git a chance at you. Then you walked right into old Hun's hand. Funny!" commented Ten-Gallon stopping there to breathe. "Very!" said the doctor, putting his hand to the tender scar on his forehead.
He quit the little valley of the shack, wandering downward toward the plains. He passed a house one night, and walking up, he discovered a hollow thing with a delicious smell. It was a ten-gallon keg that had been used for sugar, some of which was still in the bottom, and thrusting in his huge head, the keg-rim, bristling with nails, stuck to him.
Ten-Gallon was not particularly squelched or abashed by the rebuke. He winked at Agnes as if to express a feeling of secret fellowship which he held for her on account of things which both of them might reveal if they saw fit. "Shanklin, he closed up his game in Comanche three or four days ago and went over to Meander," Ten-Gallon resumed.
For a little while he stooped over Hun; then he took the gambler's coat from the saddle and spread it over his face. Hun Shanklin was in need of no greater service that man could render him. Dr. Slavens took off his coat and brought out his instrument-case. He gave Boyle such emergency treatment as was possible where the gun-fighter lay, and then called Ten-Gallon to help take him into the tent.
The Governor walked away from them again in his abstracted, self-centered way, and stood looking off across the troubled landscape. Dr. Slavens stepped to the tent to see how the patient rested, and Ten-Gallon gave Agnes another wink. "Comanche's dwindlin' down like a fire of shavin's," said he. "Nobody couldn't git hurt there now, not even a crawlin' baby."
"I've done all that can be done for him, without hope or expectation of reward," said the doctor; "and I'll stick by him to the end, one way or another. We can care for him here as long as this weather holds, just as well as they could in a hospital." "Well, as far as what this claim's worth goes," put in Ten-Gallon, edging into the conversation, "you don't need to lose any sleep over that."
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