The latter pulled up a chair beside the bed and bent his
stern eyes on the patient as if he were concentrating all of a great
will on bringing Calamity Ben back to health.
He worked with the doctor. Every half hour a temperature was taken, and
it was going up steadily. Drew heard the report each time with a
tightening of the muscles about his jaws. He helped pack the wounded man
with wet cloths. He ran out and stopped a wrangling noise of the
cowpunchers several times. But mostly he sat without motion beside the
bed, trying to will the sufferer back to life.
And in the middle of the morning, after taking a temperature, the doctor
looked to the rancher with a sort of dull wonder.
"It's dropping?" whispered Drew.
"It's lower. I don't think it's dropping. It can't be going down so
soon. Wait till the next time I register it. If it's still lower then,
he'll get well."
The grey man sagged forward from his chair to his knees and took the
hands of Calamity, long-fingered, bony, cold hands they were. There he
remained, moveless, his keen eyes close to the wandering stare of the
delirious man.
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