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 "She shot me!" Peck gasped. "She shot me through the guts!"

"No, no, Peck. She saved us—she saved us, I tell you. It's your wife!"

Peck had no time for comment or question, if he had the capacity or the interest for either. Mrs. Peck came tearing up, flinging herself from the saddle before the horse had answered her hard hand on the rein. She was on her knees beside Peck in a moment, his dazed head gathered against her pillowy bosom, groaning over him, tears streaming down her rangechafed face.

"Oh, Dowey darlin', you're all shot to slithers!" she moaned. "Oh, why didn't I git here sooner! Why—didn't—I git here—sooner!"

There was such a note of remorse and accusation in her wail as to verify Rawlins in the belief he had held all the time: that she was fond of Peck, and her harshness was only the rigor of her kind intention, her loving effort to reshape him to fit a place of honor in the land of sheep.

"Where are you shot, honey?" she asked, reclining Peck tenderly, his head on her lap.

"Here," said Peck, pressing his bread-basket, rolling his head from side to side as if the agony of his wound was beginning to make itself felt.

Mrs. Peck began to explore with tender hand, a doleful look of pity in her fat face.

"Why, there ain't no hole in you there, Dowey," she said gently, greater relief than surprise in her voice.

"Slammed clean through me—right there," Peck insisted, pulling his breath with a rattling sound.