“McGuire,” continued the boy tranquilly, “he getting drink water outside when that doctor come in room. That doctor take me and pound me all over here with his fingers”—putting his hand to his chest—“I not know for what. He put his ear here and here and here, and listen— I not know for what. He put little glass stick in my mouth. He feel my arm here. He make me count like whisper—so—twenty, _treinta_, _cuarenta_. Who knows,” concluded Ylario, with a deprecating spread of his hands, “for what that doctor do those verree droll and such-like things?” “What horses are up?” asked Raidler shortly. “Paisano is grazing out behind the little corral, _señor_.” “Saddle him for me at once.” Within a very few minutes the cattleman was mounted and away. Paisano, well named after that ungainly but swift-running bird, struck into his long lope that ate up the ground like a strip of macaroni. In two hours and a quarter Raidler, from a gentle swell, saw the branding camp by a water hole in the Guadalupe. Sick with expectancy of the news he feared, he rode up, dismounted, and dropped Paisano’s reins. So gentle was his heart that at that moment he would have pleaded guilty to the murder of McGuire. The only being in the camp was the cook, who was just arranging the hunks of barbecued beef, and distributing the tin coffee cups for supper. Raidler evaded a direct question concerning the one subject in his mind. “Everything all right in camp, Pete?” he managed to inquire. “So, so,” said Pete, conservatively. “Grub give out twice. Wind scattered the cattle, and we’ve had to rake the brush for forty mile. I need a new coffee-pot. And the mosquitos is some more hellish than common.” “The boys—all well?” Pete was no optimist. Besides, inquiries concerning the health of cow-punchers were not only superfluous, but bordered on flaccidity. It was not like the boss to make them. “What’s left of ’em don’t miss no calls to grub,” the cook conceded. “What’s left of ’em?” repeated Raidler in a husky voice. Mechanically he began to look around for McGuire’s grave. He had in his mind a white slab such as he had seen in the Alabama church-yard. But immediately he knew that was foolish. “Sure,” said Pete; “what’s left. Cow camps change in two months. Some’s gone.” Raidler nerved himself. “That—chap—I sent along—McGuire—did—he—”