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Miss Valeria moved uncertainly into the open door, got a glimpse of what lay in the blankets; her hands went up, she stumbled blindly, and Hank’s arm caught her as she fell. He let her down on the hall couch. Charley went past them, carried for the last time into his own house.

“Pettie,” Hank gave the direction over his shoulder, as he followed, “you run find some one to look after auntie.”

Jose’s wife was in the kitchen. Hilda caught at her skirts and dragged her toward the front hall, explaining as they went. She left the woman questioning, exclaiming, and flew to the living-room. They had shoved out the couch, and were raising the blankets high, so that the injured man could be laid gently down.

This done, they stood about him, seven tall, white-hatted, deep-voiced cowpunchers, afraid to move or speak lest their tones be too loud for sick-room pitch, the creaking of their boots offend. In the silence, the rustling of their big, virile bodies, in the strain of feeling, sounded plain. Something pushed against Hilda in the doorway. It was Burchie, in his soiled playfrock. She took his little grubby hand and led him forward to Uncle Hank. The old man lifted him.