a revolver was on its way, scrambled to his feet, wildly seized the
heavy spirit-bottle, and let fly at Garrison's head. There was whisky,
muscle, sinew, and fear behind the shot.

As Billy turned about to ascertain whether or not his opponent meant
fight by rising from under the table, the heavy bottle landed full on
his temple. He crumpled up like a withered leaf, and went over on the
floor without even a sigh.

It was two weeks later when Garrison regained full consciousness; opened
his eyes to gaze upon blank walls, blank as the ceiling. He was in a
hospital, but he did not know it. He knew nothing. The past had become
a blank. An acute attack of brain-fever had set in, brought on by
the excitement he had undergone and finished by the smash from the
spirit-bottle.

There followed many nights when doctors shook their heads and nurses
frowned; nights when it was thought little Billy Garrison would cross
the Great Divide; nights when he sat up in the narrow cot, his hands
clenched as if holding the reins, his eyes flaming as in his feverish
imagination he came down the stretch, fighting for every inch of the
way; crying, pleading, imploring: "Go it, Sis; go it! Take the rail!
Careful, careful! Now--now let her out; let her out! Go, you cripple,
go--" All the jargon of the turf.

He was a physical, nervous wreck, and the doctors said that he couldn't
last very long, for consumption had him. It was only a matter of time,
unless a miracle happened. The breath of his life was going through his
mouth and nostrils; the breath of his lungs.