sumption. I'd like for you to look him over and see just how bad he
is, and if we can do anything for him."

"How much was that dinner I just ate, Mr. Raidler?" said the doctor
bluffly, looking over his spectacles. Raidler returned the money to
his pocket. The doctor immediately entered McGuire's room, and the
cattleman seated himself upon a heap of saddles on the gallery, ready
to reproach himself in the event the verdict should be unfavourable.

In ten minutes the doctor came briskly out. "Your man," he said
promptly, "is as sound as a new dollar. His lungs are better than
mine. Respiration, temperature, and pulse normal. Chest expansion four
inches. Not a sign of weakness anywhere. Of course I didn't examine
for the bacillus, but it isn't there. You can put my name to the
diagnosis. Even cigarettes and a vilely close room haven't hurt him.
Coughs, does he? Well, you tell him it isn't necessary. You asked if
there is anything we could do for him. Well, I advise you to set him
digging post-holes or breaking mustangs. There's our team ready. Good-
day, sir." And like a puff of wholesome, blustery wind the doctor was
off.

Raidler reached out and plucked a leaf from a mesquite bush by the
railing, and began chewing it thoughtfully.

The branding season was at hand, and the next morning Ross Hargis,
foreman of the outfit, was mustering his force of some twenty-five men
at the ranch, ready to start for the San Carlos range, where the work
was to begin. By six o'clock the horses were all saddled, the grub
wagon ready, and the cow-punchers were swinging themselves upon their
mounts, when Raidler bade them wait. A boy was bringing up an extra
pony, bridled and saddled, to the gate. Raidler walked to McGuire's
room and threw open the door. McGuire was lying on his cot, not yet
dressed, smoking.

"Get up," said the cattleman, and his voice was clear and brassy, like
a bugle.

"How's that?" asked McGuire, a little startled.

"Get up and dress. I can stand a rattlesnake, but I hate a liar. Do I
have to tell you again?" He caught McGuire by the neck and stood him
on the floor.

"Say, friend," cried McGuire wildly, "are you bug-house? I'm sick--
see? I'll croak if I got to hustle. What've I done to yer?"--he began
his chronic whine--"I never asked yer to--"

"Put on your clothes," called Raidler in a rising tone.

Swearing, stumbling, shivering, keeping his amazed, shining eyes upon
the now menacing form of the aroused