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Updated: May 21, 2025
Morgan was roused out of his brief sleep at the Elkhorn hotel shortly after sunrise by the night telegrapher at the railroad station, who came with a telegram. "I thought you'd like to have it as soon as possible," the operator said, in apology for his early intrusion, standing by Morgan's bed, Tom Conboy attending just outside the door with ear primed to pick up the smallest word.
"It was kind of quiet and slow in town last night, slowest night I've ever had since I bought this dump. I guess I'd have to move away if things run along that way, but I don't know. Maybe business would pick up when people got used to the new deal. Goin' to let 'em open tonight?" "Night's a long way off," Morgan said, leaving the question open for Conboy to make what he could out of it.
"Bullet hit it, square in the center!" Conboy said. "It was square over your heart!" "Keep it under your hat!" Morgan warned, speaking crossly, glowering darkly on Conboy as he passed. "No niggers in Ireland," said Conboy, knowingly; "no-o-o niggers in Ireland!" Morgan regretted his oversight in leaving the badge in place. He had intended to remove it, long before.
The bay was ringed around with heavy clouds; weather was making. Storm signals were flying up on Town Hill, and down the harbor a fleet of scared vessels were making for port. "You can't go out in that, Mark," says Conboy. "I've got the money," says Mark Hammar, "and I'm going to go. If I don't get down there that crazy Portygee'll have sold that vessel to some one else.
Conboy came after him, voice lowered almost to a whisper as he spoke, eyes turning about as if he expected a spy to bob up behind his counter. "I heard it passed around late last night that Craddock was comin' back." "Wasn't he expected to?" Morgan inquired, indifferently, wholly undisturbed.
By sundown the hitching rack around the square was packed with horses; Dora Conboy told Morgan she never had waited on so many people before in her hotel experience. At dusk Morgan brought his horse from the livery stable, mounted with his rifle under the crook of his knee.
Morgan inquired, his voice hoarse and strange. "He's shot through the lung, he's breathin' through his back," Conboy replied, shaking his head sadly. "But I've seen men live shot up worse than Fred is," he added. "It takes a big lot of lead to kill a man sometimes." "We must carry him out of this heat," Morgan said.
"I guess she thinks she sent Johnny Deutra to his grave," said my aunt. Conboy peered in the door at Deolda. Her face looked like a yellow mask of death with her black hair hanging around her. "God!" he said, in a whisper. "She cares!" I don't believe it had dawned on him before that she was anything but a wild devil. All that day the Anita wasn't heard from.
Morgan went to the hardware store, two doors from the hotel, from which he presently emerged with a coil of new rope, a row of new cartridges in his belt, and pockets heavy with a reserve supply. Tom Conboy was standing in his door, looking up and down the street in the manner of a man who felt his position insecure.
They carried him across the square to that part of the business front the fire had not yet leaped over to and taken, and laid him in a little strip of shade in front of the harness store. Conboy hurried off to see if he could find the doctor.
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