ONCE more Bob awoke to find himself staring at the rafters of a Tumbling T bedroom. It was evening, and a soft breeze swept through the open window. In an adjoining room a guitar was twanging, and a musical voice hummed a Spanish love song. Bob experienced a little thrill when he identified the voice as belonging to Joe Villegas.
“Hey, you black-eyed son of sin, cut that out! You’ll waken Bob.”
Another thrill. That was Deuce speaking.
“Ees tam she wake up,” came the calm answer. “She ees slip all day.”
“Yeah?” came Ace’s drawl. “And who’s got a better right to sleep? You two dudes been doin’ nothin’ but eat and sleep while him and me has been cleanin’ house.”
“Him and who?” inquired Deuce. “Why if they’d ’a’ waited for you to get there the whole outfit would ’a’ died of old age instead of lead poisonin’.”
“Well, I done the best I could. I hadda ride back to see if Miss June had stopped Bob; it wasn’t my fault we got there after the party was over.”
“Huh! You’re just jealous because you didn’t stop no lead so’s Miss June could take care of you.”
“Who’s jealous? Me? Why, you bandy-laiged li’l’ rooster! When you get well, I’ll—”
“No need to wait, you annimated clothes-tree! I’ll climb outa this bed and give you a good workin’ over right now!”
“Señores!” begged Joe. “Wait one moment, plis. I’m jus’ theenk of song Mees June ees sing. Eet ees, ‘Lock’ Een the Stable Weeth the Ship!’ ”
Deuce guffawed. “Oh, my gosh! Locked in the stable with the sheep! That’s ‘Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep,’ you pore lunkhead.”
“Ees no difference; ees same moosic.”
“Oh, no; no difference. I reckon ‘When the Swaller Homeward Flies’ is ‘When We Swaller Homemade Pies’ to you.”
Bob chuckled aloud, heard a little stir beside him.
“Bob!”
A cool little hand found his, clutched it tightly. He turned his head.
“Oh, hello, Miss June. Reckon I’m here to bother you some more.”
“Bob, don’t say that! We’re—all—so glad you are here.”
“It’s nice of you to say that.”
“Bob, listen. A wire came from the Governor this morning. He refuses to accept your resignation!”
He eyed her soberly. “And Dick?”
“Dick is—dead. He died in my arms, smiling. Oh, Bob, wasn’t he noble!”
“Yes.” A great bitterness welled up within him, broke forth in a surge of self-reproach. “June, why did I arrest him! Why didn’t I let him escape from that cabin! I took him from you knowin’ he loved you, knowin’ that you—that you—”
“Loved him?”
Bob’s voice was a whisper. “Yes.”
He realized suddenly that the violet eyes were very close to him and that one slim young arm had slipped beneath the pillow to circle his neck. It startled him; the look on her face sent a sudden joyous surge of blood through his weakened body. He wondered if he had sunk back into unconsciousness, and if this were some delectable dream. Then her face was pressed against his and she was whispering:
“But I didn’t! I didn’t love him! I wanted to help him, to encourage him, for your sake.”
“For my sake! Then—then you—!”
“Oh, Bob, are you blind too? Must I go on confessing to—to every one?”
He knew then that he wasn’t dreaming. One arm was strapped to his side, but with the other he drew her to him. From the room beyond came the twang of the guitar and Joe’s voice raised in song:
“Lock’ een the sta-a-able weeth the shi-i-ip,
I’m knock me dow-w-wn from go to sli-i-ip.”
Bob thought it the sweetest song he had ever heard.