Overland, leaning on his shovel, drew his sleeve across his forehead. "Reckon I'll go down and wake Collie. He'll sleep his head off and feel worse 'n thunder."

"I'll go," said Winthrop, throwing aside a pan of dirt with a fine disregard of its eventual value. "I want some tobacco, anyway."

"Fetch a couple of sticks of dynamite along, Billy. I'll put in one more shot for to-night."

A distant, reverberating report caused the two men to jerk into attitudes of tense surprise.

"What the hell!" exclaimed Overland, running toward the tent. "That wasn't the kid. Collie's only packin' a automatic, and here it is."

He stopped in the tent-door, grabbed up the gun and belt, and ran down the caÑon, Winthrop following breathlessly. Near the notch he paused, motioning Winthrop to one side. "Mebby it was to draw us on. You keep there, Billy. I'll poke ahead."

But Overland did not go far. He almost stumbled over the prone figure of Collie. With a cry he tore his handkerchief from his throat and plugged the wound. "Clean through," he said, getting to his feet. "Get the whiskey."

"Shan't I help you carry him?" queried Winthrop.

Overland shook his head. "Get the whiskey and get a fire goin'. I'll bring him."

"Will he—live?" asked Winthrop, hesitating.

"I reckon not, Billy. He was plugged from behind—close—and clean through. Here's the slug."

Then Overland picked up the limp form. So this was the end of all his planning and his toil? He cursed himself for having urged Collie to come to the desert. He strode carefully, bent with the weight of that shattered body. He felt that he had lost more than the visible Collie; that he had lost the inspiration, the ideal, the grip on hope that had held him toward the goal of good endeavor. His old-time recklessness swept down upon him like the tides, submerging his better self. Yet he held steadily to one idea. He would do all that he could to save Collie's life. Failing in that ... there would be a red reckoning. After that he would not care what came.

Already he had planned to send Winthrop, in his big car, for a doctor. The car was at the desert town, where a liveryman accepted a royal monthly toll in advance to care for it.

At the tent Overland laid Collie on the blankets, bathed and bandaged the wound, and watched his low pulse quicken to the stimulant that he gave him in small doses.

"It's the shock as much as the wound," said Overland. "He got it close, and from behind—from behind do you hear?"

Winthrop, startled by the other's intensity, stammered: "What shall I do? What shall I do?"

Overland bit his nails and scowled. "You will ride to town. Collie's hoss is here. Take the Guzzuh and burn the road for Los and get a doctor. Not a pill doctor, but a knife man. Bring the car clean back here to the range. To hell with the chances."

Winthrop slipped into his coat and filled a canteen.

"If that horse throws me—" he began.

"You got to ride. You got to, understand? I dassent leave him."

Down in the meadow Overland saddled the pony Yuma. He mounted and she had her "spell" of bucking. "Now, take her and ride," said Overland. "After you hit the level, let her out and hang on. If any one tries to stick you up this time—why, jest nacherally plug 'em. Sabe?"

Winthrop nodded.

Two hours later a wild-eyed, sweating pony tore through the desert town at a run. Her rider slid to the ground as the liveryman grabbed the pony's bridle.

"Take—care—of her," gasped Winthrop. "I want—the machine."

"Anybody hurt?"

"Yes. Who did that?"

Winthrop stood with mouth open and eyes staring. The tires of the big machine were flat.

"I dunno. I watched her every day. I sleep here nights. Las' Sunday I was over to Daggett."

"And left no one in charge?"

"The boy was here."

"Well—the job is done. Take care of the horse. I'll be back in a minute."

At the station Winthrop wired for a special car and engine. He gave his check for the amount necessary and went back to the stable. He was working at the damaged tires when the agent appeared. "Special's at the Junction now. Be here in five minutes."

Winthrop climbed to the engine-cab. "I'll give you ten dollars for every minute you cut from the regular passenger schedule," he said.

The engineer nodded. "Get back on the plush and hang on," was his brief acknowledgment.

It was dark when the surgeon, drying his hands, came from the caÑon stream to the tent. "That's about all I can do now," he said, slipping into his coat.

Overland, who was sitting on a box beside the tent, stood up and stretched himself. "Is he goin' to make it?" he asked.

"I can't say. He is young, in good condition, and strong. If you will get me some blankets, I'll turn in. Call me in about two hours."