"Pat," he began, shoving him over gently, "you're shore some cayuse. Wouldn't mind ownin' a piece o' you myself. But I was goin' for to say there's trouble come onto you. That mighty likable pardner o' yours is gone in complete--sick to death. We've telephoned for the doc, but he's off somewheres, and we've got to wait till he gits back. But it's shore too bad--all of it. Steve he's got a nasty arm and shoulder, and he's all gone generally. Mighty distressin' I call it." With this he slapped Pat heartily and left him. When he had gone Pat felt a depression creeping over him. It became heavier as the hours passed. He knew that his young friend was somewhere about, and could not understand why he failed to come to him himself, instead of sending this stranger. Then, with the hours lengthening into a day, and the days dragging into a week, with only the smiling stranger coming to him regularly, and petting and stroking and talking to him, he came to feel that something of grave and serious nature was going on outside. So he longed to get out of the stable, out into sunlight and away from this restraint, and to see for himself what it was that was holding his master from him. Then late one afternoon he heard a step approaching. It was his master's step, yet it was very different. It was slow and dragging, and while the voice was the same, yet there was a note of hollowness as he spoke that did not belong there, a note as if it required great effort to speak at all. But in spite of this he recognized his young master, and sounded a welcoming nicker, anxious to be off. For somehow he believed that now he would be taken out into the sunlight. Nor was he disappointed. After a moment's petting the young man led him outdoors, and there began to bridle and saddle him, slowly, with many pauses for breath, all as if it hurt him, as indeed it must, since he still wore the white bandages. Then there appeared a group of interested young men, suddenly, as though they had just discovered the proposed departure. "See here, Steve," one of them exploded, "this ain't treating us a bit nice. You're a mighty sick man. I ain't saying that to worry you, neither; but I can't see the idee of your hopping out of bed to do this thing. You stick around till the doc comes again, anyway. Now, don't be a fool, Steve." Stephen continued slowly with his saddling. "It's decent of you fellows," he said, quietly. "And I don't want you to think me ungrateful. It's just a feeling I've got. I want to get this horse back where he belongs." Another of the group took up the attempt at persuasion. "But you're sick, man!" he exclaimed, beginning to stroke Pat absently. "You won't never make the depot! You owe it to everybody you've ever knowed to get right back into bed and stay there!"