ook for in a
man of his age, with a strength which drove up from those who saw a
little grunt of wonder, he put out his great arms so that they were
about Drennen's body, below his shoulders, catching his arms and
holding them tight against his ribs.

"Stop!" burst out Sothern's deep-lunged roar. "Can't you see the man
is sick? By God, I'll kill any man who lays a hand on him!"

Speaking he hurled his greater weight against Drennen, driving him
back. Perhaps just then the strength began to run out of the younger
man's body; or perhaps some kindred frenzy was upon Marshall Sothern.
Drennen, struggling and cursing, gave back; back another step; and
then, wilting like a cut flower, went down, the old man falling with
and upon him. As they fell Drennen lay still, his eyes roving
wonderingly from face to face of the men crowding over him. Then his
gaze came curiously to the face so near his own, the stern, powerful
face of Sothern. An odd smile touched Drennen's lips fleetingly; he
put out a freed arm so that it fell about Sothern's shoulders, his eyes
closed and consciousness went out of him with a sigh.

"Bring him over to Marquette's."

It was Charlie Madden's voice. Madden and Hasbrook were crowding their
way close to the two men in the centre of the group, but little behind
Sothern in keeping their eyes upon the man because of whom they were
here, for whom they were prepared to fight jealously.

"Stand back!"

Sothern's answer. He had risen, stooped a little, gathered Drennen up
in his arms. After the way of men at such a time there was no giving
back, rather a growing denseness of the packed throng.

"Don't you hear me?" boomed Sothern angrily. "I say stand back!"

Those directly in front of him, under his eyes, drew hesitantly aside,
stepping obediently to right or left. Carrying his burden with a
strength equal to that of a young Kootanie George, Marshall Sothern
made his way through the narrow lane they made for him. But he did not
turn toward Pere Marquette's.

"Where are you taking him?" demanded Madden suspiciously, again forcing
his way to Sothern's elbow. "That's not the way . . ."

"I'm taking him to his own home," said Sothern calmly. "The only home
he's got, his dugout."

"Oho," cried Madden, suspicion giving place to certainty and open
accusation, while Hasbrook, combing at his beard, was muttering in a
like tone. "You'll take him off to yourself, will you? Where you can
do as