f-a-gun! Good! What for? You never told me you'd done
anythin'."

"I know--but I did--do a lot. I was sixteen then. We quarreled. And I
ran off up here to punch cows. But after a while I wrote home to mother
and my sister. Since then they've tried to coax me to come home. This
letter's from the old man himself. Gee!... Well, he says he's had to
knuckle. That he's ready to forgive me. But I must come home and take
charge of his ranch. Isn't that great?... Only I can't go. And I
couldn't--I couldn't ever ride a horse again--if I did go."

"Who says you couldn't?" queried Wade. "I never said so. I only said
you'd never be a bronco-bustin' cowboy again. Well, suppose you're not?
You'll be able to ride a little, if I can save that leg.... Boy, your
letter is damn good news. I'm sure glad. That will make Collie happy."

The cowboy had a better appetite that morning, which fact mitigated
somewhat the burden of Wade's worry. There was burden enough, however,
and Wade had set this day to make important decisions about Moore's
injured foot. He had dreaded to remove the last dressing because
conditions at that time had been unimproved. He had done all he could to
ward off the threatened gangrene.

"Wils, I'm goin' to look at your foot an' tell you things," declared
Wade, when the dreaded time could be put off no longer.

"Go ahead.... And, pard, if you say my leg has to be cut off--why just
pass me my gun!"

The cowboy's voice was gay and bantering, but his eyes were alight with
a spirit that frightened the hunter.

"Ahuh!... I know how you feel. But, boy, I'd rather live with one leg
an' be loved by Collie Belllounds than have nine legs for some
other lass."

Wilson Moore groaned his helplessness.

"Damn you, Bent Wade! You always say what kills me!... Of course I
would!"

"Well, lie quiet now, an' let me look at this poor, messed-up foot."

Wade's deft fingers did not work with the usual precision and speed
natural to them. But at last Moore's injured member lay bare, discolored
and misshapen. The first glance made the hunter quicker in his
movements, closer in his scrutiny. Then he yelled his joy.

"Boy, it's better! No sign of gangrene! We'll save your leg!"

"Pard, I never feared I'd lose that. All I've feared was that I'd be
club-footed.... Let me look," replied the cowboy, and he raised himself
on his elbow. Wade lifted the unsightly foot.

"My God, it's crooked!" cried Moore, passionately. "Wade, it's heal