The sheriff closed his eyes quickly. “I guess I don’t know yuh,” he said slowly. “Mebbe not. I was with the JB a while. What’s the matter with yuh, anyway? You’ve been here three days.” “Three days?” The sheriff’s eyes popped open. Red told him all about it. “Didn’t have no medicine,” he explained. “Had to do the best I could.” “Know who I was?” “Saw yore star. Yo’re Deming of Calor, ain’t yuh? Yeah, I thought yuh was. I’ve heard of yuh. How’d yuh happen to be out there in the lava beds?” The sheriff closed his eyes, thinking swiftly. Cowan must not know why he was out there. “I dunno,” he said. “Took sick. Must have ridden a long ways.” “You picketed yore horse.” “Oh, I wasn’t plumb out until after--just awful sick.” “You shore know how to be sick,” grinned Cowan. “Do you feel like some eats?” The sheriff shook his head. “Better not talk any more, pardner. You’ve been pretty sick, and it might fever yuh up, if yuh talked much.” That suited the sheriff. He didn’t want to talk; he wanted to think. His eyes shifted to his belt and gun on the bunk-post at the head of his bed, and he wondered if the gun was loaded. When Cowan went outside he lifted a hand toward the gun, and as he did so he glanced at his hand. He felt of his stubby face, and a look of horror spread over his face. “Smallpox!” he exclaimed to himself. “That’s what it is--all them little red specks. I got it from that damn’ hobo!” * * * * * Cowan came back into the house, but the sheriff did not tell him. He was afraid that Cowan might leave him in fear of the disease. Not exactly that he felt an immediate need of Cowan, but he wanted to take Cowan back a prisoner. “Still feelin’ pretty good?” asked Cowan as he busied himself around the stove. “I don’t feel so good, Cowan.” “Probably not. Can’t expect to. But I reckon I’ve busted the fever. How about a little broth, eh?” “Not now.” “Uh-huh. Tomorrow mornin’, if yo’re feeling pretty good, I think I’ll head for Mesquite River and send some folks in to take care of yuh. You need a doctor pretty bad, and you’ll need the right kinda food.” That was not so good. The sheriff huddled down in bed, trying to think of some way to prevent Cowan from leaving. Just now his thoughts ran in circles, because his head ached again. Ten minutes later he was delirious again. And all that night Cowan had to use force to keep him in bed. He babbled of murderers, horse thieves and of his own prowess as a sheriff. And in the light of the candle Cowan saw the rash on the sheriff’s hands and face. “Smallpox!” grunted Cowan. “So that’s what’s the matter, eh? Lucky I’ve had a good dose of it. Tomorrow I’ll tie him down and head for a doctor.” It was daylight again before the sheriff became conscious. The fever had abated enough to allow him to realize and recognize again. Cowan’s face was drawn and tired, his eyes red from lack of sleep.