He felt a little better when the sun went down and the short desert twilight had blended with the night; a time in which the temperature drops swiftly from a hundred and fifteen in the shade to sixty in the dark. The sheriff had ridden away without any blankets, and now he shivered in a sudden chill, which seemed to crinkle his vertebrae. Queer thing, that chill. It rattled his teeth like castanets and increased his headache until every movement of the horse brought him fresh misery. So he dismounted, uncoiled his lariat and picketed his horse. It was only after several minutes that he was able to summon enough energy to remove the saddle. Duty Deming was a sick man--and knew it. He thought of saddling his horse and heading for Calor, but he had lost all sense of direction. The stars blurred in his eyes, and he flopped down beside his saddle, burying his aching head in his arms. * * * * * It was possibly two hours later that the sheriff’s horse nickered softly in the darkness, but the sheriff did not lift his head. Came the sound of a horse walking, and the bulky form of a horse and rider came in through the broken rocks, plainly visible by the light of the stars. The rider drew rein near the picketed horse, as though rather surprised to find a horse there. He dismounted and discovered the rope, speaking softly to the horse. He turned away and soon discovered the sheriff. “Sleepin’ kinda heavy, ain’t yuh, pardner?” he asked in a soft, drawling voice; but the sheriff did not move. Coming in closer, the man scratched a match. He was of medium height, thin-faced, blue-eyed, dressed in a faded blue shirt, well-worn bat-wing chaps, black Stetson. The light of the match glistened on the butt of a big Colt in the holster swinging at his thigh. As he removed his hat to shield the match the light glistened on his copper-colored hair. He was Red Cowan, the murderer. He knelt down beside the sheriff and shook him by the shoulder. “Wake up, pardner,” he said softly, but the sheriff merely grunted and began mumbling deliriously. “Sick, eh?” muttered the red headed one. “Funny. Got a bad fever and he’s plumb loco. And it’s a long ways to a doctor. Jist what’ll I do next?” * * * * * He squatted on his heels and rolled a cigarette. After due deliberation and another cigarette he saddled the sheriff’s horse. The sheriff was not easy to arouse but he talked steadily, mumbling his words, swearing and laughing foolishly, while Red Cowan swung him into the saddle and roped him on. He swayed forward, both arms dangling loosely, while Cowan mounted his own horse and picked up the lead-rope. Cowan took his bearings from the North Star and started out, looking back at the humped figure of the sheriff, swaying in the saddle. “Stay with her, pardner,” he grunted. “We’ll make the old Alkali Spring ranch by mornin’, and mebbe we’ll find somebody there.”