Inflammation of his wound had set in, and at one
time his condition was thought to be quite critical.
One day Luke Bradley came in his buggy to drive him out to his house.
"Marthy won't heer to a refusal," he said. "She's powerful' troubled.
She 'lowed ef we'd 'a' made you stay with us you'd not 'a' been apt to
'a' met Wambush that day, an' 'a' been laid up like this. She's jest
dyin' to git to cook things fer you an' doctor you up."
"I'll go and stay a day, anyway," promised Westerfelt. He glanced at
Harriet Floyd, who stood behind the curtains looking out of the window.
"I don't need any finer treatment than I've had, Luke. Miss Harriet's
been better than a sister to me. She saved my life the other night,
too. If she hadn't interfered that gang would have nabbed me as sure
as preaching, and I was unarmed and too weak to stand rough handling."
Harriet came from the window. She took the roll of blankets that
Bradley had brought and held one of them before the fire.
"It's chilly out to-day," she said. "You'd better wrap him up well,
Mr. Bradley.
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