than the human body and mind ever were designed to undergo. He
thought he spoke to Taterleg; the words shaped on his tongue, his throat
moved. But there was such a roaring in his ears, like the sound of a
train crossing a trestle, that he could not hear his own voice.

"Sure," said Taterleg, hopefully, "you're all right, ain't you, old
sport?"

"Fine," said Lambert, hearing his voice small and dry, strange as the
voice of a man to him unknown.

Vesta put her arm under his head, lifted him a little, gave him a
swallow of water. It helped, or something helped. Perhaps it was the
sympathetic tenderness of her good, honest eyes. He paid her with
another little grin, which hurt her more to see than him to give,
wrenched even though it was from the bottom of his soul.

"How's old Whetstone?" he asked, his voice coming clearer.

"He's all right," she told him.

"His tail's burnt off of him, mostly, and he's cut in the hams in a
couple of places, but he ain't hurt any, as I can see," Taterleg said,
with more truth than diplomacy.

Lambert struggled to his elbow, the consciousness of what seemed his
ingratitude to this dumb savior of his life smiting him with shame.

"I must go and attend to him," he said.

Vesta and Taterleg laid hands on him at once.

"You'll bust them stitches I took in your back if you don't keep still,
young feller," Taterleg warned. "Whetstone ain't as bad off as you, nor
half as bad."

Lambert noticed then that his hands were wrapped in wet towels.

"Burned?" he inquired, lifting his eyes to Vesta's face.

"No, just swollen and inflamed. They'll be all right in a little while."

"I blundered into their hands like a blind kitten," said he,
reproachfully.

"They'll eat lead for it!" said Taterleg.

"It was Kerr and that gang," Lambert explained, not wanting to leave any
doubt behind if he should have to go.

"You can tell us after a while," she said, with compassionate
tenderness.

"Sure," said Taterleg, cheerfully, "you lay back there and take it easy.
I'll keep my eye on things."

That evening, when the pain had eased out of his head, Lambert told
Vesta what he had gone through, sparing nothing of the curiosity that
had led him, like a calf, into their hands. He passed briefly over their
attempt to herd him into the fire, except to give Whetstone the hero's
part, as he so well deserved.

Vesta sat beside him, hearing him to the end of the brief recital that
he made of it in sile