d at the Pass in hourly attendance at the
hospital, looking in at every chance upon the sick man. In Shock's
presence he carried an exaggerated air of cheerful carelessness, but
outside he went about with a face of sullen gloom. Toward The Don, with
whom he had previously been on most friendly terms, he was wrathfully
contemptuous, disdaining even a word of enquiry for his patient,
preferring to receive his information from the nurse. In Ike's
contempt, more than in anything else, The Don read the judgment of
honourable men upon his conduct, and this deepened to a degree almost
unendurable his remorse and self-loathing.

One morning, when the report was not so favourable, Ike stopped him
with the question: "Will he git better?"

"Well," said The Don gloomily, "I have not given up hope."

"Look here," replied Ike, "I want you to listen to me." His tone was
quiet, but relentlessly hard. "If he don't, you'll talk to me about it."

The Don looked at him steadily.

"Would you kill me?" he asked, with a quiet smile.

"Well," drawled Ike slowly, "I'd try to."

"Thank you," said The Don. "That would save me the trouble." And,
turning on his heel, he left the cowboy in a very puzzled state of mind.

But Shock did not die. His splendid constitution, clean blood, and
wholesome life stood off the grim enemy, and after two weeks of
terrible anxiety The Don began to hope, and insisted on the nurse
allowing herself some relaxation from her long watch.

But as Shock grew stronger The Don's gloom deepened. He had determined
that once his friend was fit for work again he would relieve him of the
burden of his presence. He had only brought trouble and shame to the
man who was his most trusted, almost his only friend.

Life looked black to The Don in those days. Lloyd's treachery had
smitten him hard. Not only had it shaken his faith in man, but in God
as well, for with him Lloyd had represented all that was most sacred in
religion. Death, too, had robbed him of his heart's sole treasure, and
in robbing him of this it had taken from him what had given worth to
his life and inspiration to his work. Of what use now was anything he
had left?

He was confronted, too, with the immediate results of his recent folly.
The hospital funds, of which he was the custodian, had disappeared. He
knew that Hickey had robbed him of most of them, but in order to
recover them he would have to acknowledge his crime of using them for
his own ends.