p of your under-skirt--what am I going to do?--extract the ball--got
to do it--blood poison in this sun."

She ripped her skirt, handing it to him without a word; then dropped her
white face in her hands, bending, with closed eyes, over the whiter face
resting on her lap, her lips trembling with the one prayer, "Oh, God!
Oh, God!" How long he was at it, or what he did, she scarcely knew--she
heard the splash of water; caught the flash of the sun on the probe;
felt the half conscious shudder of the wounded man, whose head was in
her lap, the deft, quick movements of Fairbain, and then--

"That's it--I've got it--missed the lung by a hair--damn me I'm proud of
that job--you're a good girl."

She looked at him, scarce able to see, her eyes blinded with tears.

"Will--will he live? Oh, tell me!"

"Live! Why shouldn't he?--nothing but a hole to close up--nature'll do
that, with a bit of nursing--here, now, don't you keel over--give me the
rest of that skirt."

He bandaged the wound, then glanced about suddenly.

"How's the other fellow?"

"Dead," returned Bristoe, "shot through the heart."

"Thought so--have seen Keith shoot before--I wonder how the cuss ever
managed to get him."

As he arose to his feet, his red face glistening with perspiration,
and began strapping his leather case, the others rode up, and Bristoe,
explaining the situation, set the men to making preparations for pushing
on to the water-hole. Blankets were swung between ponies, and the bodies
of the dead and wounded deposited therein, firm hands on the bridles.
Hope rode close beside Keith, struggling to keep back the tears, as she
watched him lying motionless, unconscious, scarcely breathing. So, under
the early glow of the desert stars, they came to the water-hole, and
halted.

The wounded man opened his eyes, and looked about him unable to
comprehend. At first all was dark, silent; then he saw the stars
overhead, and a breath of air fanned the near-by fire, the ruddy glow
of flame flashing across his face. He heard voices faintly, and thus,
little by little, consciousness asserted itself and memory struggled
back into his bewildered brain. The desert--the lonely leagues of
sand--his fingers gripped as if they felt the stock of a gun--yet that
was all over--he was not there--but he was somewhere--and alive, alive.
It hurt him to move, to breathe even, and after one effort to turn
over, he lay perfectly still, staring up into the black arch of