"You needn't tell me not to be anxious," he said, "you are anxious
yourself. I see it, I feel it."

"Well, there's no use trying to keep things from you," I replied, "but
I am only a little anxious. Don't you go beyond me and work yourself up
into a fever over it."

"No," he answered quietly, "but I wish his mother were nearer."

"Oh, bosh, it isn't coming to that; but I wish he were in better shape.
He is broken up badly without this hole in him."

He would not leave till I had promised to take him up the next day,
though I was doubtful enough of his reception. But next day The Duke
came down, his black bronco, Jingo, wet with hard riding.

"Better come up, Connor," he said, gravely, "and bring your bromides
along. He has had a bad night and morning and fell asleep only before
I came away. I expect he'll wake in delirium. It's the whisky more than
the bullet. Snakes, you know."

In ten minutes we three were on the trail, for Moore, though not
invited, quietly announced his intention to go with us.

"Oh, all right," said The Duke, indifferently, "he probably won't
recognize you any way."

We rode hard for half an hour till we came within sight of Bruce's
shack, which was set back into a little poplar bluff.