Not knowing what else to do just then, George lay there in the grass and considered the matter. Weary and footsore as he was, the thought of finishing his journey on horseback was a most agreeable one. The animal was loose—when he raised his head, George could see that he was not confined by a lariat—but if he attempted to creep up to him the horse would doubtless take fright and run off; and that would excite the suspicions of his owner, who might be tempted to send a bullet from his carbine in that direction. There was too much danger in it George found when he came to think it over. He sighed regretfully, thought almost with a shudder, of the long, weary miles that lay between him and the nearest rancho, and was about to crawl back down the swell again, when he was astonished almost beyond measure, to hear his own name pronounced in a weak and trembling, but still distinct voice. “George! George Ackerman!” came the hail from the willows. George jumped to his feet, and looking in the direction from which the voice sounded, saw a sombrero waved in the air, and could dimly discern the figure of a man, dressed in Mexican costume, who was sitting on the ground, with his back against one of the willows. “George!” repeated the man. “Hallo!” was the reply. “Come here, will you? I am badly hurt and in need of help!” George grew more and more astonished. The man was a Mexican beyond a doubt, but the voice sounded strangely familiar. “Don’t be afeared, George!” continued the man, in a pleading tone. “I couldn’t hurt you if I wanted to! I’ve got something to tell you!” “Who are you?” asked the boy. “Why, don’t you know Springer, who used to herd cattle for your father?” Yes, George knew him, and he didn’t know anything good of him either. “If you are Springer,” he shouted “what are you doing there with those clothes on?” “Come here, an’ I’ll tell you all about it!” was the answer. “I’ll tell you something else, too—something that’ll make you open your eyes. Do come, George, and give me a drink of water! I’ve got a chunk of lead through each leg!” “Aha!” said George, who thought he understood the matter now. “You were with the raiders, and Zeke got two pulls at you with his Winchester!” As he said this he ran down the swell, and in a few minutes more was standing beside the wounded man. It was Springer, sure enough, but he was so much changed that George could scarcely recognise him. His face was very pale and his strong frame was convulsed with agony. The sash he usually wore around his waist had been cut in two, and the pieces were bound tightly about his legs above the knee to stanch the flow of blood from the wounds made by the herdsman’s rifle. He was a hard-looking fellow, and any one would have taken him for just what George knew him to be—a cattle-thief.