Half an hour later he managed to regain the bed, where he was content to lie with closed eyes and analyze his various pains and weaknesses.

Maria came in several times to change the cold cloths on his forehead.

Otherwise she left him in peace, too wise to vex him with chatter.

This moved him to gratitude, and he murmured to himself, "Maria, you getta da milka ranch, all righta, all right." Then he remembered his long-buried past of yesterday.
It seemed a life-time since he had received that letter from the Transcontinental, a life-time since it was all over and done with and a new page turned.

He had shot his bolt, and shot it hard, and now he was down on his back.