The book proved of absorbing interest to "Mexico." He read it openly in the saloon without any sense of incongruity, at first, between the book and the business he was carrying on, but not without very considerable comment on the part of his customers and friends. And what he read became the subject of frequent discussions with his friend, the doctor. The book did its work with "Mexico," as it does with all who give it place, and the first sign of its influence was an uncomfortable feeling in "Mexico's" mind in regard to his business and his habits of life. His discomfort became acute one pay night, after a very successful game of poker in which he had relieved some half a dozen lumbermen of their pay. For the first time in his life his winnings brought him no satisfaction. The great law of love to his brother troubled him. In vain he argued that it was a fair deal and that he himself would have taken his loss without whining. The disturbing thoughts would not down. He determined that he would play no more till he had talked the matter over with his friend, and he watched impatiently for the doctor's return. But that week the doctor failed to appear, and "Mexico" grew increasingly uncertain in his mind and in his temper. It added to his wretchedness not a little when the report reached him that the doctor was confined to his bed in the hospital at Kuskinook. In fact, this news plunged "Mexico" into deepest gloom.
"If he's took to bed," he said, "there ain't much hope, I guess, for they'd never get him there unless he was too far gone to fight 'em off."
But at the Kuskinook Hospital there was no anxiety felt in regard to the doctor's illness. He was run down with the fall and winter's work. He had caught cold, a slight inflammation had set up in the bowels, and that was all. The inflammation had been checked and in a few days he would be on his feet again.
"If we could only work a scheme to keep him in bed a month," groaned Dick to his nurse as they stood beside his bed.
"There is, unhappily, no one in authority over him," replied Margaret, "but we'll keep him ill as long as we can. Dr. Cotton," and here she smilingly appealed to the newly appointed assistant, "you will help, I am sure."
"Most certainly. Now we have him down we shall combine to keep him there."
"Yes, a month at the very least," cried Dick.
But Barney laughed their plans to scorn. In two days he promised them he would be fit again.
"It is the Superintendent of the Hospital against the Medical Superintendent of the Crow's Nest Railway," said Dr. Cotton, "and I think in this case I'll back the former, from what I've seen."
"Ah," replied Margaret, "that is because you haven't known your patient long, Doctor. When he speaks the word of command we simply obey."
And that is just what happened. On the afternoon of the second day, when both the doctor and Dick had gone off to their work and Barney had apparently fallen into a quiet sleep, the silence that reigned over the flat was broken by Ben Fallows coming up the stair with a telegram in his hand.
"It's fer the doctor," said Ben, "an' the messenger said as 'ow 'Mexico' had got shot and--"
Swiftly Margaret closed the door of the room in which Barney lay.
Ben's voice, though not loud, was of a peculiarly penetrating quality. Two words had caught Barney's ear, "Mexico" and "shot."
"Let me have the wire," he said quietly, when Margaret came in.
"I intended to give it to you, Barney," she replied as quietly.
"You will do nothing rash, I am sure, and you always know best."
Barney opened the telegram and read, "'Mexico' shot. Bullet not found. Wants doctor to come if possible."
"Dr. Cotton is not in?" inquired Barney.
"He is gone up the Big Horn."
"We can't possibly get him to-night," replied Barney.
Silently they looked at each other, thinking rapidly. They each knew that the other was ready to do the best, no matter at what cost.
"Take my temperature, Margaret." It was nine-nine and one-fifth.
"That's not bad," said Barney. Margaret, I must go. It's for 'Mexico's' life. Yes, and more."
Margaret turned slightly pale. "You know best, Barney," she said, "but it may be your life, you know."
"Yes," he replied gravely. "I take that chance. But I think I ought to take it, don't you?" But Margaret refused to speak.
"What do you think, Margaret?" he asked.
"Oh, Barney!" she cried, with passionate protest, "why should you give your life for him?"
"Why?" he repeated slowly. "There was One who gave His life for me. Besides," he added, after a pause, "there's a fair chance that I can get through."
She threw herself on her knees beside his bed. "No, Barney, there's almost no chance, you know and I know, and I can't let you go now!" The passionate love in her voice and in her eyes startled him. Gravely, earnestly, his eyes searched her face and read her heart. Slowly the crimson rose in her cheeks and flooded the fair face and neck. She buried her face in the bed. Gently he laid his hand upon her head, stroking the golden hair. For some moments they remained thus, silent. Then, refusing to accept the confession of her word and look and act, he said, in a voice grave and kind and tender, "You expect me to do right, Margaret."
A shudder ran through the kneeling girl. Once more the cup of renunciation was being pressed to her lips. To the last drop she drained it, then raised her head. She was pale but calm. The bright blue eyes looked into his bravely while she answered simply, "You will do what is right, Barney."
Just as he was about to start on his journey another wire came in.
"Didn't know you were so ill. Don't you come. I'm all right.
'Mexico.'" A rumour of the serious nature of the doctor's illness had evidently reached "Mexico," and he would not have his friend risk his life for him. A fierce storm was raging. The out train was hours late, but a light engine ran up from the Crossing and brought the doctor down.
When he entered the sick man's room "Mexico" glanced into his face.
"Good Lord, Doctor!" he cried, "you shouldn't have come! You're worse than me!"
