Dimly, through eyes that were mere slits of red, he saw the white face of the girl. White as the pillow against the mass of black hair. He lifted her head and held the cup against the lips that seemed drained of blood. “The pain--the pain. . .” “Hell, ain’t it? But that drink’ll do you good.” He went back into the other room and handed Pete his cup. “Here’s luck, Pete. Down ’er. More where that come from.” Sam gulped down his drink without a grimace. His brain seemed to be clearing. “Where do you keep your pencil and paper, Pete?” “That shelf. God, Sam, if we could only do somethin’ to help her.” “Keep your shirt on.” Sam found the writing pad and pencil. He handed them to the crippled man. “Write a note to the doctor, Pete. Tell it scary.” Sam pulled on his cap again. “I’ll be ready by the time you git it wrote.” “Where you goin’, Sam?” “Out to saddle up the best horse you got. I’m goin’ fer the doctor. I’ll stop by the nearest ranch and have ’em send over somebody to ride herd on you.” The door banged shut behind him. Sam caught Pete’s best horse. When he had saddled the animal, he came back inside. “Got that note finished?” “Yes. But you can’t make it into town, Sam.” “The hell I can’t. The storm’s quit. I know the road, and I ain’t so drunk but what I kin ride. Lemme have that pencil.” He scrawled something at the foot of the note. Then he folded the paper and put it into his pocket. “Hang and rattle, Pete, till the doc gits here.” He poured some of the whisky into an empty vinegar bottle and put the corked bottle into his overcoat. Then he filled the two cups. “Here’s how, Pete. If the kid looks like you, I shore feel sorry fer the critter.” Sam tossed down his drink and before Pete Peralta could say a word, he was gone. III It was almighty hard luck, the way things had turned out for a man. When the only friend a man had was laid up with a busted laig and a sick wife. No “Red River Jig”. No fire to set by. No Pete to talk to and tell how comical that bank dude looked when he dropped. No warm grub. Only that bottle. Better drop past the cabin and fill a jug. When a man ain’t slept ner et he’d orter have a jug along to keep him alive. He stopped at his cabin long enough to fill the jug. Then he pulled out. He rode into a Long X line camp. A slit eyed, frost blackened man who staggered a little when he walked. The two cowpunchers stared hard at him. “Peter Peralta’s in bad shape. Broke a laig. His missus is dyin’. I’m ridin’ fer a doctor. One o’ you boys git over there and look after things.” He wolfed some meat and beans and gave them a shot out of his jug. One of the cowpunchers was getting ready for the trip to Pete’s. Sam Graybull climbed back into the saddle and rode on. The storm had quit. The stars glittered like white sparks against the clear sky. The moon pushed up over the ragged ridges. Sam Graybull swayed a little as he rode, half asleep, half awake, back along the trail to town.