Buffalo Bill and his party were ushered into the hovel by Wild Bill. On a blanket, at one side of the only room the hut contained, lay a man groaning with pain and with a bandage about his forehead. “Red Steve!” gasped Lige Benner, pushing eagerly forward. “I don’t care who the nation he is,” growled the doctor, “he’s a man that needs attention.” “He’s already had attention, doc,” said Wild Bill. “Not professional,” and the doctor’s critical eye surveyed the rough bandage. “Why wasn’t a doctor called before?” he demanded, fixing an accusing eye on Wild Bill. “Because Red Steve wouldn’t have it. He swore he’d kill himself if I went for a doctor. You see, Steve has something on his mind. He was afraid he’d be landed for the shooting of Ace Hawkins. I didn’t dare tell him he was to have visitors this morning--but he’s got to a point where he don’t much care what happens to him. He’s got his ticket, friends.” The doctor went down on his knees and began an examination. “How did he get his ticket?” he demanded. “The horns of Red Thunderbolt did the business for Steve. When I found him he was about gone. I did what I could to keep him alive, and, when I got the chance, I rode to the Star-A ranch. There were a lot of men hanging around the ranch, and I hadn’t a notion what was tip, so I sneaked in and sent Cayuse for Pard Cody.” “Sufferin’ twisters!” exclaimed old Nomad. “Say, Buffler, was Red Steve the feller we heard yell, back thar in the trail yisterday? Is he the feller thet fired the shot, then dug out while we was mixin’ things with Red Thunderbolt?” “He’s the man, Nick,” answered the scout. “Red Steve was badly hurt, but he managed to get into this gully and into this ruined ’dobe. If we’d known who he was,” the scout added, “we might have found him long ago.” “Blame’ quare how things turns out some times,” muttered Nomad. Red Steve’s eyes were closed, and he seemed scarcely to breathe. Only a groan, now and then coming through his tense lips, gave evidence that he was still alive. The doctor looked up and shook his head. “Red Steve is a whole lot nearer the Great Divide than what Jake is,” announced the doctor. “He’s got to talk before he goes,” cried Benner; “he’s got to stay here long enough to do me justice.” “He must say something for Nate, too,” put in Mrs. Dunbar. “He must tell about the attack on Jake Phelps and clear Nate. Doctor! Do what you can! He must talk!” In their excitement and apprehension, those interested in what Red Steve had to say showed themselves in rather a merciless light. The doctor raised his hand. “I haven’t my medicine case with me,” said he, “but if we had a little liquor----” He turned and peered at Bloom. The latter, somewhat reluctantly, drew a flask from his pocket. The doctor, lifting Red Steve’s head with one arm, pressed the flask to his lips. A swallow of the fiery liquor gurgled down the desperado’s throat. “Get him to talk about Nate first,” said Perry.