THE Show had gone on. It had its schedules to meet, its competitions to face. It put up its paper, and other rival organizations came along and tore it down. Now and then there was even a battle.
It was like an army, it cared as best it could for its casualties and then moved on, unloading, parading, playing and reloading.
"Gangway for the elephants! Get in there, Babe! Damn your thick hide, get in."
But for a day or two at least there was no singing as the cowboys rode their horses through the darkness to the siding, swaying easily in their saddles to the rustle of leather on leather, the click of buckles and spurs. Tom had been popular with them. He had been a fine rider, and he had been square. "A square shooter," they said among themselves. And there was a mystery about his injury. The property man had loaded the guns himself with blanks.
The Colonel himself had gone to the hospital to see Tom and get at the truth, but Tom had been curiously non-committal.
"Maybe some Indian had a grudge against me. You never can tell"
"You don't know?"
"No, and couldn't prove it if I did."
The Colonel had done his best, arranged for Tom's hospital bills, and for his salary to go on for three months, and then had gone away, not quite easy in his kindly mind. He thought Tom knew more than he would say.
Then, for a few days, Tom fought a good fight. He suffered intensely, but when Kay was around he kept it to himself. He seemed content to have her beside him, to hold her hand, even—as he improved—to let her read to him.
