“I'm sure I might save him if you'd let me try. Or are you really eager to shoot him?” Chip's muscles shrank. Eager to shoot him--Silver, the only thing that loved and understood him? “You may come and look at him, if you like,” he said, after a breath or two. Miss Whitmore overlooked the tolerance of the tone and stepped to his side, mechanically clutching the sketch in her fingers. It was Chip, looking down at her from his extra foot of height, who called her attention to it. “Are you thinking of using that for a plaster?” Miss Whitmore started and blushed, then, with an uptilt of chin: “If I need a strong irritant, yes!” She calmly rolled the paper into a tiny tube and thrust it into the front of her pink shirt-waist for want of a pocket--and Chip, watching her surreptitiously, felt a queer grip in his chest, which he thought it best to set down as anger. Silently they hurried down where Silver lay, his beautiful, gleaming mane brushing the tender green of the young grass blades. He lifted his head when he heard Chip's step, and neighed wistfully. Chip bent over him, black agony in his eyes. Miss Whitmore, looking on, realized for the first time that the suffering of the horse was a mere trifle compared to that of his master. Her eyes wandered to the loaded revolver which bulged his pocket behind, and she shuddered--but not for Silver. She went closer and laid her hand upon the shimmery mane. The horse snorted nervously and struggled to rise. “He's not used to a woman,” said Chip, with a certain accent of pride. “I guess this is the closest he's ever been to one. You see, he's never had any one handle him but me.” “Then he certainly is no lady's horse,” said Miss Whitmore, good-naturedly. Somehow, in the last moment, her attitude toward Chip had changed considerably. “Try and make him let me feel the break.” With much coaxing and soothing words it was accomplished, and it did not take long, for it was a front leg, broken straight across, just above the fetlock. Miss Whitmore stood up and smiled into the young man's eyes, conscious of a desire to bring the curve back into his lips. “It's very simple,” she declared, cheerfully. “I know I can cure him. We had a colt at home with his leg broken the same way, and he was entirely cured--and doesn't even limp. Of course,” she added, honestly, “Uncle John doctored him--but I helped.” Chip drew the back of his gloved hand quickly across his eyes and swallowed. “Miss Whitmore--if you could save old Silver--” Miss Whitmore, the self-contained young medical graduate, blinked rapidly and found urgent need of tucking in wind-blown, brown locks, with her back to the tall cow-puncher who had unwittingly dropped his mask for an instant. She took off J. G.'s old hat, turned it clean around twice and put it back exactly as it was before; unless the tilt over her left ear was a trifle more pronounced. Show me the woman who can set a hat straight upon her head without aid of a mirror!