Twenty minutes later, McCarthy, half out of his mind, found Morgan, the knife thrower, sobbing in a back corral, where rodeo officials had dragged the body of Blackie, Morgan’s near leader, after Blackie had gone down in the crash of the two six teams when Morgan had cut away from his outfit. McCarthy shook Morgan by the shoulder, and Morgan looked up, to see a strange expression on the wagon boss’s face. “Yuh bawlin’ over a daid mule when the big boss is half kilt and Flynn is in th’ hospital?” cried McCarthy, in a peculiar voice that he had tried to steady, but couldn’t. “You’re a fine knife fighter! Say, you come along with me--right now--I been lookin’ high an’ low fer you!” Morgan got up, like a man in a trance. He wiped a sleeve across his eyes. Blackie dead--his wagon smashed--Flynn in the hospital--misfortune in plenty! He followed McCarthy blindly to the hospital tent, where Ashton, his face and hands bandaged, but apparently not badly injured, smiled weakly at him. Flynn, also bandaged, and on another cot, grinned, too, but Morgan hung his head. “Here’s the blamed little knife thrower,” began McCarthy, and at that Morgan’s head came up. “Knife thrower!” he cried. “Say, ain’t nobody ever goin’ to let up on that? That knife came in handy to-day! An’ I carried it just fer such a case! I never threw no knife--I never hurt any one--but I lost a team o’ four mules in th’ Carolinas oncet--slipped over a ledge--the leaders did--an’ I could of saved the wheelers ef I had a knife. I didn’t--an’ since then I’ve carried that knife----” “Thank God for that!” said Ashton, speaking softly from beneath the bandages that all but masked him. “Your knife saved me to-day, Morgan! Flynn has been telling me about you, in the last five minutes--about your misunderstanding with the boys in camp. He says they had you wrong--and that was before you explained why you carried that knife. That explanation straightens out matters, I guess, but say----” The big boss paused a moment. “Are you going to continue to carry that knife,” he went on, “or are you going to put it aside now that----” “I’m gonna carry it!” said Morgan doggedly. “Fine,” said the big boss, “an’ nobody will ride you for it, either, for it won’t show if you wear a coat. As assistant wagon boss over on the western division, where there is a vacancy--you’ll be expected to wear a coat at all times. The Q B company insists on its officials doing that!” Morgan took the bandaged hand that the big boss extended to him, and he tried to say something appropriate. “That sorrel mule, sir,” he stumbled. “I knew he was wrong--he had a white streak in his eye, over the eyeball--bad sign--an’ so--an’ so--well----” “You gonna hold th’ boss’ hand all day,” demanded McCarthy finally, “with Flynn an’ me here waitin’ to shake with you? An’ about a thousand people outside waitin’ to do th’ same--includin’ Neeson, an’ Buckley, an’ Dwyer?”