"Buck!" exclaimed Whitby, with intuitive conviction. "It’s Buck as sure as little apples Kesicks." Fifty yards’ advance showed him that he was right. The figure lying huddled in the road was certainly Buck, and beside him was his dead pony. Rose flung herself from the saddle and ran to him; and Whitby, wearing the terribly savage expression of the man slow to anger, was not far behind. Together they laid the unconscious figure at full length. [Illustration: Rose flung herself from the saddle and ran to him] "It is there," said Rose, dully, pointing to the right thigh. "Ah," breathed Whitby, in a sigh of relief. He cut the cloth but forbore to tear it away, the coagulated blood having stopped the bleeding. "Drilled through!" he exclaimed. "Why, the swine must have been near enough to do better than that. How ever did he miss? We ’ll bandage this as it is, Miss LaFrance, and do it properly at—now, should you say take him to the doctor at Wayback?" "No. He is a drunken beast. I will nurse him." "Very well. A good nurse is better than a drunken doctor. Just cut this sleeve from my shirt, will you?" Rose took the knife and cut, instead, a three-inch strip from the bottom of her skirt, Whitby meanwhile producing a flask, from which he carefully fed Buck small quantities of whiskey. Rose tendered him the bandage. "Well rolled, Miss LaFrance! Have you been taught this sort of thing?" Rose silently nodded her head. "My word! Buck is in luck. You apply the bandage then, while I give him this. You ’ll make a better job of it than I should." Buck slowly opened his eyes to see Whitby’s face bending over his. "Got away, Whit," he whispered, weakly; "ambushed me, by G—d," and relapsed into unconsciousness. "Much blood! He have lose much blood," murmured Rose. "Yes," assented Whitby. "How shall we carry him? He can never ride." "Travois," said Rose. "I show you." Buck again regained consciousness and his voice was distinctly stronger. "Get after him, Whit. He must n’t get away." "Oh, nonsense, Buck. They know the cat’s out of the bag by this time and they will never be such asses as to try it on now. As for Dave, he can’t get away. The agency will be jolly glad to do something for the money they have had by turning over Dave if I ask it of them. And McAllister will think you are worth a good bit more than the money, I lay. I know I do." Buck was attempting feeble remonstrance when Rose returned from her survey of the timber available and swiftly placed her hands over his lips. "Do not talk," she commanded. "It is bad to talk, now." "What price the nurse—eh, Buck? Oh, you lucky beggar!" "Rose," murmured Buck. "Why, that’s right kind." Admonishing him with raised forefinger, Rose gave instructions to Whitby and he hastened away to gather material for the travois. * * * * *