ay, along the face of dizzy cliffs, and through lava beds where the
footing was uncertain and dangerous. But in an hour they were on the
plains and riding toward the break in the ridge of hills, where the
shooting had been done.

The man's pony had moved off a little and was grazing unconcernedly
when they arrived. A brown heap in the grass told where the man lay,
and presently Ferguson was down beside him, one of his limp wrists
between his fingers. He stood up after a moment, to confront Miss
Radford, who had fallen behind during the last few minutes of the ride.
Ferguson's face was grave, and there was a light in his eyes that
thrilled her for a moment as she looked at him.

"He ain't dead, ma'am," he said as he assisted her down from her pony.
"The bullet got him in the shoulder."

She caught a queer note in his voice--something approaching appeal.
She looked swiftly at him, suspicious. "Do you know him?" she asked.

"I reckon I do, ma'am," he returned. "It's Rope Jones. Once he stood
by me when he thought I needed a friend. If there's any chance I'm
goin' to get him to your cabin--where you can take care of him till he
gets over this--if he ever does."

She realized now how this tragedy had shocked her. She reeled and the
world swam dizzily before her. Again she saw Ferguson dart forward,
but she steadied herself and smiled reassuringly.

"It is merely the thought that I must now put my little knowledge to a
severe test," she said. "It rather frightened me. I don't know
whether anything can be done."

She succeeded in forcing herself to calmness and gave orders rapidly.

"Get something under his head," she commanded. "No, that will be too
high," she added, as she saw Ferguson start to unbuckle the saddle
cinch on his pony. "Raise his head only a very little. That round
thing that you have fastened to your saddle (the slicker) would do very
well. There. Now get some water!"

She was down beside the wounded man in another instant, cutting away a
section of the shirt near the shoulder, with a knife that she had
borrowed from Ferguson. The wound had not bled much and was lower than
Ferguson had thought. But she gave it what care she could, and when
Ferguson arrived with water--from the river, a mile away--she dressed
the wound and applied water to Rope's forehead.

Soon she saw that her efforts were to be of little avail. Rope lay
pitifully slack and unresponsive. At the end of an hour's