The bullet which had gone through Badger-face hadn’t touched a single bone. It had gone through his left lung purty high up, but somethin’ like the pneumonie set in, an’ he was a sorry lookin’ sight when the fever started to die out after havin’ hung on for two weeks. He had been drinkin’ consid’able beforehand, which made it bad for him, an’ the Friar said it was all a question of reserve. If Badger-face had enough of his constitution left to tide him over, he stood a good chance; but otherwise it was his turn.

He didn’t have much blood left in him at the end of two weeks on air and water, and he didn’t have enough fat to pillow his bones on. We all thought ’at he ought to have something in the way o’ feed; but the Friar wouldn’t stand for one single thing except water. He said ’at food had killed a heap more wounded men ’n bullets ever had; so we let him engineer it through in his own way.

When the fever started to leave, he got so weak ’at Horace thought he was goin’ to flicker out, an’ he felt purty bad about it. He didn’t regret havin’ done it, an’ said he would do just the same if he had it to do over; but it calls up some mighty serious thoughts when a fellow reflects that he is the one who has pushed another off into the dark. On the night when it seemed certain that Badger-face would lose his grip, we all went into his room an’ sat around waitin’ for the end, to sort o’ cheer him up a little. Life itself is a strange enough adventure, but death has it beat a mile.

Along about nine o’clock, Badger said in a low, trembly voice: “What’d you fellers do to me, if I got well?”

He didn’t even open his eyes; so we didn’t pay any heed to him. When he first got out of his head, he had rambled consid’able. Part o’ the time he seemed to be excusin’ himself for what he had done, an’ part o’ the time he seemed to be gloatin’ over his devilment; but the’ wasn’t any thread to his discourse so we didn’t set much store by it. After waitin’ a few minutes, he quavered out his question again, an’ the Friar told him not to worry about anything, but just to set his mind on gettin’ well.

Badger shook his head feebly from side to side an’ mumbled, “That don’t go, that don’t go with me.” He paused here for a rest, an’ then went on. “I’ve been in my right mind all day, an’ I’ve been thinkin’ a lot, an’ tryin’ some experiments. I can breathe in a certain way which makes me easier an’ stronger, an’ I can breathe in another way which shuts off my heart. I don’t intend to get well merely for the pleasure o’ gettin’ lynched; so if that’s your game, I intend to shut off my heart an’ quit before I get back the flavor o’ life. It don’t make two-bits difference with me either way. What d’ ya intend to do?”

He had been a long time sayin’ this, an’ we had exchanged glances purty promiscuous. We hadn’t give a thought as to what we would do with him, providin’ he responded to our efforts to save his life; but it was purty generally understood that Badger had fitted himself to be strung up, just the same as if he hadn’t been shot at all. Now, though, when we came to consider it, this hardly seemed a square deal. There wasn’t much common sense in chokin’ a man’s life down his throat for two weeks, only to jerk it out again at the end of a rope, an’ we found ourselves in somethin’ of a complication.

“What do ya think we ort to do to ya?” asked Tank.

“Lynch me,” sez Badger, without openin’ his eyes; “but I don’t intend to wait for it. I don’t blame ya none, fellers. I did ya all the dirt I could; but I don’t intend to furnish ya with no circus performance—I’m goin’ on.”

He began to breathe different, an’ his face began to get purplish an’ ghastly. “Can he kill himself that way?” I asked the Friar.

“I don’t know,” sez the Friar. “I think ’at when he loses consciousness, nature’ll take holt, an’ make him breathe the most comfortable way—but I don’t know.”

“Let Olaf take a look at his flame,” sez Horace; so Olaf looked at Badger a long time.

Olaf hadn’t wasted much of his time on Badger. He wasn’t long on forgiveness, Olaf wasn’t; an’ ever since the time ’at Badger had been so enthusiastic in tryin’ to have him lynched for killin’ Bud Fisher, Olaf had give it out as his opinion that Badger was doomed for hell, an’ he wasn’t disposed to take any hand in postponin’ his departure. Olaf was the matter-o’-factest feller I ever knew. The’ don’t seem to be much harm in most of our cussin’, but when Olaf indulged in profanity, he was solemn an’ earnest, the same as if he was sayin’ a prayer backwards.

“It don’t look like Badger’s flame,” sez he after a time. “It’s gettin’ mighty weak an’ blue, an’ the’s a thick spot over his heart which shows plainer ’n the one over his wound.”

“I move we give him a fresh start,” sez Horace.

“He’d ort to be lynched,” sez Tank. “I don’t see why we can’t try him out now, an’ if we find him guilty, why he can kill himself if he wants to, or else get well again an’ we’ll do it for him.”

Neither what Horace said nor what Tank said called out much response. We knew the’ wasn’t any one could say a good word for Badger-face an’ so he well deserved his stretchin’; but on the other hand, there he was turnin’ gray before our eyes, an’ it went again’ our nature to discard him, after havin’ hung on to him for two weeks. The Friar left the side of the bed an’ retired into a corner, leavin’ us free to express ourselves.

“I don’t see how we can let him go free,” sez Tank. “He sez himself ’at he ort to be lynched; an’ when a feller can’t speak a good word for himself, I don’t see who can.”

“Badger-face,” sez Horace, “you’re the darnedest bother of a man I ever saw. First you infest us until we have to shoot a hole through you, an’ then we have to nurse you for two weeks, an’ now you’re diggin’ your heels into our consciences. I give you my word we won’t lynch you if you get well. We’ll turn you over to the law.”

Badger’s thin lips fell back over his yellow teeth in the ghastliest grin a live man ever hung out. “The law,” sez he with bitter sarcasm, “the law! Have you ever been in a penitentiary?”

“No,” sez Horace, “I have not.”

“Well, I have,” sez Badger. “I was put in for another feller’s deed; an’ they gave me the solitary, the jacket, the bull-rings, the water-cure, and if you’ll roll me over after I’m dead, you can still see the scars of the whip on my back. I’ve tried the law, an’ I’ll see you all damned before I try it again.”

Badger-face was as game as they generally get. As soon as he stopped talkin’ he began to breathe against his heart again. Horace stood lookin’ at him for a full minute, an’ then he lost his temper.

“You’re a coward, that’s what you are!” sez Horace. “I said all along ’at you were a coward, an’ another feller said so too, an’ now you’re provin’ it. You can sneak an’ kill cows an’ cut saddles in the dark, but you haven’t the nerve to face things in the open. Now, you’re sneakin’ off into the darkness o’ death because you’re afraid to face the light of life.”

This was handin’ it to him purty undiluted, an’ Badger opened his eyes an’ looked at Horace. His eyes were heavy an’ dull, but they didn’t waver any. “Dinky,” sez Badger-face, “the only thing I got again’ you is your size. I’ve been called a lot o’ different things in my time; but you’re the first gazabo ’at ever called me a coward—an’ you’re about the only one who has a right to, ’cause you put me out fair an’ square. I wish you had traveled my path alongside o’ me, though. You ain’t no milksop, but after you’d been given a few o’ the deals I’ve had, you’d take to the dark too. You can call me a coward if you want to, or, after I’m gone, you can think of me as just bein’ dog tired an’ glad o’ the chance to crawl off into the dark to sleep. I don’t want to be on your conscience; that’s not my game. All I want is just to get shut o’ the whole blame business.”

He talked broken an’ quavery, an’ it took him a long time to finish; but when he did quit, he turned on his bad breathin’ again. Horace had flushed up some when Badger had mentioned milksop; but when he had finished, Horace took his wasted hand in a hearty grip, an’ sez: “I take it back, Badger. You ain’t no coward. I only wanted to taunt you into stickin’ for another round; but I think mighty well o’ ya. Will you agree to cut loose from the Ty Jones crowd an’ try to be a man, if we give you your freedom, a new outfit, and enough money to carry you out of the country?”

It was some time before Badger spoke, an’ then he said: “Nope, I can’t do it. Ty knows my record, an’ he’s treated me white; but if I quit him, he’ll get me when I least expect it. Now understand, Dinky, that I don’t hold a thing again’ you, you’re the squarest feller I’ve ever met up with; but I’m not comin’ back to life again. From where I am now, I can see it purty plain, an’ it ain’t worth the trouble.”

“You could write back to Ty that you made your escape from us,” sez Horace.

“That’s the best idee you’ve put over,” sez Badger, after he’d thought it out; “but I haven’t enough taste for life to make the experiment. Don’t fuss about me any more. I don’t suffer a mite. I feel just like a feller in the Injun country, goin’ to sleep on post after days in the saddle. He knows it’ll mean death, but he’s too tired out to care a white bean.”

“Have you ever been in the army?” asked the Friar from his place in the corner. We all gave a little start at the sound of his voice, for it came with a snap an’ unexpected.

Badger’s lips dropped back for another hideous grin. “Yes,” he said, “I’ve been in both the penitentiary and the army—and they’re a likely pair.”

“Did you have a buck-skin bag?” asked the Friar, comin’ up to the bed.

Badger-face tried to raise himself on his elbow, but he couldn’t quite make it. “Yes, I did,” sez he, droppin’ back again. “What became of it?”

“I am keepin’ it for ya,” sez the Friar. “Do you wish to leave any word in case you do not recover?”

“No,” sez Badger, “the’ ain’t no one to leave word to. That letter was from my mother, an’ that was her picture. She’s been dead a long string o’ years now.”

“There was another picture an’ a newspaper clippin’,” sez the Friar.

Badger-face didn’t give no heed; an’ after a time the Friar sez: “What shall I do with them?”

“Throw ’em away,” sez Badger-face. “They don’t concern me none. I was more took with that woman’s picture ’n airy other I ever saw. That was all.”

“Where did you get it?” asked the Friar.

“I got it from a young Dutchy,” sez Badger wearily. “He killed a feller over at Leadville an’ came out here an’ took on with Ty Jones. He said she was an opery singer, an’ got drugged at a hotel where he was workin’.”

Badger-face was gettin’ purty weak by now, an’ he stopped with a sort of sigh. The Friar took holt of his hand. “I am very much interested in this woman,” he said, lookin’ into Badger’s face as if tryin’ to give him life enough to go on with. “Can you tell me anything else about her?”

“Not much,” sez Badger-face. “She was singin’ at what he called the Winter Garden at Berlin, Germany. Some Austrian nobility got mashed on her an’ drugged her at the hotel. Dutchy was mashed on her, too, I reckon. They had advertised for him in a New York paper, an’ when he got shot, over at Little Monte’s dance hall, he asked me to write about it. His mother had died leavin’ property, an’ all they wanted was to round up the heirs. I reckon they were glad enough to have Dutchy scratched from the list. I don’t know why I did keep that clippin’.”

“Have you any idee how long ago it was ’at the woman was drugged?” asked the Friar.

“I haven’t any idee,” sez Badger-face weakly. “Carl was killed four years ago this Christmas eve; so it had to be before that.”

“Listen to me, Badger-face,” sez the Friar, grippin’ his hand tight. “I want you to get well. I know that all these men will stand by you and help you to start a new life.”

“How long is it since I’ve been laid up?” asked Badger.

“Two weeks,” sez the Friar. “This is two days after Christmas.”

“Who tended to me?” asked Badger.

“We all did,” sez the Friar, “and we all stand ready to help you make a new start.”

“I had a good enough start,” sez Badger; “but I fooled it away, an’ I’m too old now to make a new one.”

“Is there any word you want sent to your friends at Ty Jones’s?” asked the Friar.

Once more Badger skinned his face into the grin. “Friends?” sez he. “When you trap a wolf, does he send any word to his friends? I haven’t got no friends.”

“Swallow this milk,” sez Horace holdin’ some of it out to him in a big spoon. Kit had made Olaf start to milkin’ a cow, ’cause she wanted to use milk in cookin’, and intended to make butter when she had the cream saved up. Badger put the milk in his mouth, an’ then spit it out again.

“Don’t you put anything else in my mouth,” he sez. “I told you I was goin’ to die; an’ by blank, I am goin’ to die.”

“Fellers,” sez Horace, turnin’ to us, “do you think this man is goin’ to die?” We all nodded our heads. “Then, will you give his life to me, to do with as I will?” asked Horace; and we nodded our heads again.

Horace took off his coat, an’ rolled up his sleeves, an’ then he came over an’ shook Badger-face by the shoulder. “Listen to me,” he sez. “I fought ya once before, for your life, and I’m goin’ to fight you for it now. Do you hear what I say—I’m goin’ to fight you for your own life. I’m goin’ to make you swallow milk, if I have to tie you an’ pour it in through a funnel. You can’t hold your breath an’ fight, an’ I’m goin’ to fight you.”

Badger-face opened his eyes an’ looked up into Horace’s face. He looked a long time, an’ the ghost of a smile crept into his face. “Well, you’re the doggonedest little cuss I ever saw!” he exclaimed. He waited a long time, an’ then set his teeth. “You beat me once,” he muttered. “Now, see if you can beat me again.”

It was after midnight; so when Horace dropped the hint that he wouldn’t need any help except from me an’ the Friar, the rest o’ the boys dug out for the bunk shack. Then Horace took us over to the fireplace an’ asked us what was the best thing to do.

“I do believe ’at you have stumbled on the right plan to save him,” sez the Friar. “He has no fever, the wound is doin’ splendid, and he has a powerful constitution. The trouble is that he does not will to live. We must spur on his will, and if we can make him fight back, this’ll help. Also we must control him as much as possible through suggestion. Have you any plan o’ your own?”

“No,” sez Horace candidly. Horace didn’t need anything for any emergency except his own nerve. “I am determined that he must live, but I have no plan.”

“The first thing is to give him a little warm milk,” sez the Friar.

“All right,” sez Horace. “You tell me what to do—by signs, as much as possible—but let me give the orders to Badger-face. My size has made an impression on him, and we can’t afford to lose a single trick.” The Friar agreed to this an’ we went back to the bunk.

“Badger-face,” sez Horace, “I’d rather give you this milk peaceful; but I’m goin’ to give it to ya, an’ you can bet what ya like on that.”

Badger opened his eyes again, an’ they were dull an’ glazy. “This reminds me o’ the water-cure at the pen,” he said, an’ then set his teeth.

“Hold his hands, Happy,” sez Horace, as full o’ fight as a snow-plow. “Hold his head, Friar. Now then, swallow or drown.”

It looked purty inhuman, but Badger had to swallow after a bit, an’ when we had put as much milk into him as we wanted—only a couple o’ spoonfuls—we let him go, an’ he fell asleep, pantin’ a little. We woke him up in half an hour, an’ put some more milk into him. When he slept, his breathin’ was more like natural, an’ the fourth time, I didn’t have to hold his hands; so I went to sleep myself.

Well, Horace won this fight, too. In about four days, Badger-face began to have an appetite, an’ then it was all off with him. He couldn’t have died if we’d left him plumb alone; but he hadn’t give up yet. The Friar kept him down to a mighty infan-tile diet, sayin’ that a lung shot was a bad one, an’ the pure mountain air was all that had saved him; but even now fever was likely to come back on him.

It was close to the tenth o’ January when Horace came in from a ride one evenin’, an’ went in to see Badger-face, still wearin’ his gun. Quick as a wink, Badger grabbed the gun; but Horace threw himself on Badger’s arm, an’ yelled for help. The Friar an’ Olaf rushed in from the lean-to, an’ corraled the gun in short order.

“You blame little bob-cat, you!” sez Badger. “I didn’t intend to use the gun on you.”

“I know what you intended to do,” sez Horace; “but you don’t win this deal as easy as all that.”