e sat down on the edge of the bed,
rocking herself back and forth, murmuring:

"Harrie, Harrie, oh, my son, my little boy."

In the outside room, Presley came and went, doing what he could to be of
service, sick with horror, trembling from head to foot.

The surviving members of both Leaguers and deputies--the warring
factions of the Railroad and the People--mingled together now with no
thought of hostility. Presley helped the doctor to cover Christian's
body. S. Behrman and Ruggles held bowls of water while Osterman was
attended to. The horror of that dreadful business had driven all other
considerations from the mind. The sworn foes of the last hour had no
thought of anything but to care for those whom, in their fury, they had
shot down. The marshal, abandoning for that day the attempt to serve the
writs, departed for San Francisco.

The bodies had been brought in from the road where they fell. Annixter's
corpse had been laid upon the bed; those of Dabney and Hooven,
whose wounds had all been in the face and head, were covered with a
tablecloth. Upon the floor, places were made for the others. Cutter
and Ruggles rode into Guadalajara to bring out the doctor there, and to
telephone to Bonneville for others.

Osterman had not at any time since the shooting, lost consciousness.
He lay upon the floor of Hooven's house, bare to the waist, bandages
of adhesive tape reeved about his abdomen and shoulder. His eyes were
half-closed. Presley, who looked after him, pending the arrival of a
hack from Bonneville that was to take him home, knew that he was in
agony.

But this poser, this silly fellow, this cracker of jokes, whom no one
had ever taken very seriously, at the last redeemed himself. When at
length, the doctor had arrived, he had, for the first time, opened his
eyes.

"I can wait," he said. "Take Harran first." And when at length, his turn
had come, and while the sweat rolled from his forehead as the doctor
began probing for the bullet, he had reached out his free arm and taken
Presley's hand in his, gripping it harder and harder, as the probe
entered the wound. His breath came short through his nostrils; his face,
the face of a comic actor, with its high cheek bones, bald forehead,
and salient ears, grew paler and paler, his great slit of a mouth shut
tight, but he uttered no groan.

When the worst anguish was over and he could find breath to speak, his
first words had been:

"Were any of the others badly h