The first thing I did was to light the lantern, for the daylight which came down there was too much in keepin’ with the conditions to suit me. Promotheus was doubled up an’ holdin’ his side; so the first thing I did was to ask him if he was bad hurt. The’ was a smile on his lips, a regular satisfied, self-composed smile, but I didn’t just like the look in his eyes.

“Nope, I don’t ache at all, Happy,” he said in a firm voice; “but I can’t move much. Tend to the others first.”

It seems ’at Ty’s first shot had hit the woman in the head, and his next had got The in the side—but The had managed to get the gun away from him, which is why the rest of us were spared.

The Friar had carried the woman into our offset, and was rubbin’ her wrists and workin’ over her, though the’ didn’t appear to be much use. She was still alive; but that was just all, so I left them and examined the rest. Ty was all twisted out o’ shape, and lay with his eyes open, glassy an’ stary and horrible. Olaf hadn’t had time to quite finish the Chink, and he was crawlin’ down the tunnel when I nabbed him. Then Horace took the lantern while Olaf and I hog-tied Pepper Kendal and the Chink.

We next examined the cave-room where Ty had made his last stand. It was fair-sized an’ well stocked, and also had half a dozen extra guns in it. When I saw these fresh guns, I gave a low whistle to think what a lot o’ suckers we’d been to discard our own trumps and set in a game against a marked deck; but as the Friar allus said: “Wrong feeds on death and Right feeds on life; so the’ can’t be no doubt as to the final result, even though things do look blue sometimes.”

There was a fine spring in the corner o’ this room—the same spring which afterwards came out near the mouth of the ravine and was piped into the old cabin. The wounded Cross-brander was still babblin’, so we fed him some water and eased him around a little.

Next we went outside and nailed some pieces to a couple o’ light poles, and we were mighty glad to have enough left to man this vehicle when it was finished, for we were all purt nigh used up, Tillte, the two Simpson boys, and myself carried the litter, while Horace ran the illumination, and Olaf tended to Pepper and the Chink.

We took ’em all out, even to the dead; and the one at the foot of the stairs turned out to be the boy, just as I’d thought. Next to the woman, with the Friar walkin’ beside her his head on his breast, this trip with the boy cut me worse ’n any. Promotheus got off three average good jokes while we were packin’ him out, and cheered us up a lot; but we put Ty Jones down with the dead. As we straightened him out he gave a groan which made us all jump. The whole thing had become a nightmare, and we staggered about like the ingredients of a dream.

The woman’s head was shattered on top an’ the’ wasn’t any hope for her; but still, it gave the Friar comfort to work over her, so we acted as though we thought she had a chance. The nearest doctor was at Meltner’s stage station, a full day’s ride. Tillte went after him, while Dan Simpson rode over to his father’s to break the news and bring back Kit. What with the prisoners still on our hands, the dead to bury, and the wounded to wait on, we were in chin-deep; and the worst of it was, ’at we didn’t want the news to get out. We had tried to settle things without botherin’ the law, and we preferred to finish that way if possible.

We buried the four Cross-branders across the crick and down stream from the lower ford, and we buried Tim Simpson just a little way above the upper ford. The Friar went along and helped dig the graves and carry them to it; but he didn’t preach nor sing, and his face was drawn with sorrow.

By evenin’ we had got things to some system. Spider, Tank, Slim, and Horace were able to help quite a little; but Oscar, Tom Simpson, and Promotheus were in bad shape; while we had seven prisoners, countin’ the Chink, and seven wounded enemies to look after. The feller Horace had shot, up on top, got out o’ the country, I reckon. Anyway they left him above with the horses, and we never heard of him again.

Ol’ man Simpson, Kit, and the boy arrived durin’ the moonlight, and we were all mighty glad to see Kit, though we hated to face the old man. Still, he was game, and took it mighty well. Tillte had got a fresh hoss at Meltner’s and had started right back with the doctor; so they arrived a little after seven next mornin’. The doctor was purty young lookin’ to me; but he had a bagful o’ shiny instruments, and he made himself at home without any fuss. He had been in a Colorado hospital for two years, a minin’ hospital, and he was as familiar with a feller’s insides, as a pony is with the range he was foaled on. He had took a claim near Meltner’s, and was able to talk a long time on why it was better for a young doctor to come west.

He praised the Friar’s work to the skies—and then turned in and did it all over to suit himself. He said that all the wounded stood a good show except the woman, Promotheus, and Ty Jones. We none of us thought ’at The was in much danger; but the doctor shook his head. Ty’s spinal column had been unjointed near the base, and he was paralyzed from the hips down; but in all that skirmishin’, he was the only one who hadn’t lost a drop o’ blood. The Friar, himself, had two flesh-wounds beside the one Ty had give him.

I was with the doctor when he started to work on the woman’s head; but I couldn’t stand it. I’m not overly squeamish; but I own up I couldn’t stand this; so I backed out, leavin’ the Friar with his face like chalk, to hand instruments while little old Kit held a basin. I hated to leave ’em; but I didn’t take a full breath until I was beside Promotheus again.

His voice had got weaker, but the smile never left his lips, and it was restful just to sit and watch him. Horace hovered over him like a young hen, and The drank so much water, simply to please Horace, that I feared his bones would dissolve. Horace had told the doctor he would pay all the bills, and to go the full limit and not try to economize none on his patch-work. We put the seven prisoners in the workshop, and slept in tarps around the door, which was fastened with a chain, so ’at if they got it open, a board would fall on these sleepin’ next, and wake ’em.

The Friar was all for notifyin’ the authorities; but old man Simpson had been a notorious public, or some such official, back in Vermont and naturally he was up on all the twists and windin’s of the law. He said it would take the Su-preme Court itself fifteen years to sift out the actual legalities of our tangle; and even then he wasn’t sure which side would get the worst of it, so he advised us to just work it out on our own hook, which we had decided to do anyway.

For three days, the woman lay in a stupor. Kit had told me that her skull hadn’t been actually shattered—that she had been shot in just about the same way that Olaf had, but that Nature had counted on Olaf gettin’ into some such a fix, and had provided for it by givin’ him a flint skull, while the woman’s skull wasn’t of much use except in times of peace. Kit said the doctor had taken out a few splinters of bone, and had fastened up the openin’, but had said the’ wasn’t any show for her.

On the other hand, Olaf had looked at her careful, and had said that all the vital part of her was workin’ on just this point. He said that the light about her body was the blue o’ weakness; but that just at this point, the’ was a constant bulgin’ out o’ different colors in a way he had never before seen. The doctor heaved up his eyebrows at Olaf’s verdict, and looked as though he thought perhaps Olaf’s brain had been shifted a little out o’ line, in spite of his flint skull.

On the third night I was what the doctor called his orderly, and went on duty at midnight. I was sittin’ out on the porch of the old cabin when the Friar came out holdin’ his hand across his eyes. We had moved the wounded men over to the bunk-shack, and the woman was in Ty’s bedroom. I didn’t speak to him, and he stood leanin’ against one o’ the posts for some time without seein’ me.

He trembled all over, and his breath came quick and catchy. Finally he looked up at the stars and said in a low tone, as though speakin’ personal to some one near at hand: “Save me, oh God, from mockery! I have spoken for others in my vanity; and now that my own hour has come, oh save me from the rebellion of my flesh; and give me grace to say in my heart, Thy will be done.”

As he stood with his face upraised, the late moon crept out and shone full upon it, and the agony in it struck me like a blow; but even as I looked, the change came. Before my very eyes, I saw the sign of peace made upon the Friar’s brow. A moment before and it had been torn into wrinkles and covered with beads of sweat; but now it was smooth and calm. He clasped his hands across his breast, closed his eyes, and the’ came a smile to his lips which drew a mist to my own eyes. I can’t be absolutely certain of it, because o’ this blur in my eyes; but I think, I actually and honestly do think, that I saw white forms hoverin’ in the moonlight above him.

He drew a full breath and turned to go in, but saw me settin’ with my back again’ the wall o’ the cabin, and came over and put a hand on my shoulder. I couldn’t say anything. I wanted to say somethin’ to comfort him; but I couldn’t speak a word, until he asked me how the others were gettin’ along. I told him they were all doin’ fine, and that even Ty had been restin’ well. He turned to go in, and then I found the nerve to ask him how things were inside.

“It is all over, Happy,” sez he, without even a catch in his voice. “Just before I came out here, the doctor said the pulse had stopped.”

He caught his breath with a little gasp at this; but that was all. “What did Olaf say?” I asked.

“Olaf says that she still lives,” he answered; “but I fear that Olaf is not to be relied upon this time. He has a strange gift; but he does not understand it himself, and while I know he would not deceive me, I feel that the doctor must know best.”

“Well, I’ll not give up until Olaf does!” I blurted.

He smiled again and put his hand back on my shoulder. “Come in and look at her,” he said, “she is very beautiful. The strange mask has fallen from her face, and she is once more as she was in those old, happy days when we walked together through our own Garden of Eden. Come in, I want you to see her.”

I went in with him, though I didn’t want to. I knew what love did to a man, and that I hadn’t seen the same woman he had; but the’ was another face allus before my eyes, and no one else was beautiful to me. I didn’t want to do any pertendin’ to the Friar, even at such a time as this.

I follered him inside, feelin’ out o’ place and embarrassed; but when I looked down at the quiet face in the bed, I was glad I had come. She didn’t look like the same woman, not at all. All the weary, puzzled expression had left her face, and in spite of its whiteness, it looked like the face of a girl. I looked at her a long time and the thought that came to me over and over was, what a shame she couldn’t have had just a few words with the Friar before she was called on; just a few words, now that her right mind was back.

After a time I looked up. Kit sat near the head of the bed, leanin’ over and holdin’ a handkerchief to her eyes, Olaf sat near her, a strange, grim set to his lips. His head was bandaged and he looked less like a human than usual, as he kept his eyes fixed on the white face o’ the woman. The’ was a lamp on the stand and I could see his eyes. Blue they were, deep blue, like the flowers on the benches in June, and they didn’t move; but kept a steady gaze upon the white, still face. The doctor sat in a corner, his eyes on the floor. At first I thought he was asleep, and goodness knows, he was entitled to it; but just as I looked at him he rubbed his fingers together a moment and stood up.

He walked over and put his hand on the Friar’s shoulder. “You might as well all go to sleep, now,” he said, gently. “There is nothing more to do.”

“Are you positive?” asked the Friar.

“Positive,” said the doctor. “There is no heart action, and when I held a mirror to her lips no vapor was formed.”

“She is still alive,” said the deep voice of Olaf, and we all gave a little start.

The doctor took a silver quarter and held it to the woman’s nose for a minute, and then looked at it. A puzzled look came to his face, and he went back and sat down in the corner again.

“Was it discolored?” asked the Friar.

“No,” sez the doctor slowly; “but I am sure there is no life remaining. I have seen several cases of suspended animation, but nothin’ like this.”

“She lives, and the light is getting stronger,” said Olaf.

Kit took the handkerchief from her eyes which were still full o’ tears. She wiped them away, and looked first at the woman and then at Olaf, and then she gave a sigh. The Friar’s hands were opening and shutting. He had fought his fight out on the porch; but the suspense was beginnin’ to undermine him again.

I went back to the porch and stayed a while. When I went in again, they were all as I had left them; and after a few minutes I made my rounds, found everything all right, and came back. I went into the room several times, and just as I caught the first whiff o’ the dawn breeze, I went in once more, determined to coax the Friar to lie down and try to sleep.

They were still in the same positions. Not a line had changed in the woman’s face, the Friar was almost as white as she was but still stood at the foot o’ the bed lookin’ down at her; while the wrinkles on Olaf’s set face seemed carved in stone.

I had just put my hand on the Friar’s arm to get his attention when Olaf rose to his feet, pressed his hand to his blinkin’ eyes, and said wearily: “The blue color is givin’ way to pink. She will get well.”

“Don’t say it unless you’re sure!” cried the Friar, his voice like a sob.

For answer Olaf pointed down at the woman’s face. A faint color stole into her cheeks, and as we looked her eyes opened. The first thing they rested upon was the Friar’s face bent above her, and her lips parted in a wonderin’ smile—a smile which lighted her face like the mornin’ sun on ol’ Mount Savage, and made her beautiful, to me an’ to all who’ve ever seen her.

“Is it you?” she whispered. “Is it really you?”

A warm, rosy beam of sunshine slipped in through the window and fell across the bed, and the rest of us tiptoed out, leavin’ the Friar alone with the gift of life which the Dawn had brought back to him.