"You're sick!" exclaimed the President rising. "Waiter--some
brandy!"

"No--just a little dizzy.

"Mr. President," he slowly began, "this is a case that all the papers in
the world can't tell--nor all the men--there's none just like it.

"It's not for the boy--it's not for me. I took her from her folks against
their will, and I've not panned out lucky--but that's not to the point.
She's sick; the doctor can't help her--nobody can but you--I wish you
might have seen her from the window yonder."

The half-finished luncheon was disregarded; the President had sunk
into his chair, and the keen discrimination of a king of affairs was
struggling with a strange fascination.

"Long ago, Mr. President, I had an enemy--Bill Hartsell--we shot
each other." He held up a withered hand. "It's been a feud ever since.
His boy and mine went to war in the same company--both as brave as ever
wore the blue. When they were waitin' to be mustered out Bill's boy was
murdered in his tent--in his sleep. Bill was there and swore he saw my
Richard do it.

"One night, a month ago, my woman--she's a great woman, Mr.
President--the sick folks down in my country call her 'The Angel of
Lonesome Hill'--well, she had a dream that Bill Hartsell wanted to see
me. I hadn't laid eyes on him for years. I strapped on my six-shooter
and she said, 'No--it isn't that kind of a trip--it's peace.'