And all through the night they wended their way through the lava beds, and it was just about daybreak when they came out at an old tumbledown ranch house. The old buildings seemed about to fall down, the corrals were in bad repair, and only one fan was left on the old windmill, which creaked in the morning breeze. Down by the old stable was an alkali spring, where a few cattle, drifters from the herds in the Mesquite River ranges, came to drink. Red Cowan looked them over appraisingly. They meant fresh meat. He unroped the sheriff and lifted him to the ground, propping him against the wall while he went inside. The inside of the house was not as bad as the exterior, as it had been used by some cattlemen during a recent roundup. There was a roll of blankets, tightly wrapped in a tarpaulin, swinging from a rafter, while from a tightly closed box he took flour, baking powder, salt, sugar, beans and some cans of vegetables and fruit. “Thought there might be a cache here,” he said, as he removed the provisions. He took down the bed-roll and spread it out on one of the bunks, before going out after the sheriff, whom he dragged in and put to bed. He looped the sheriff’s belt around a bunk post, removed his clothes, and prepared a breakfast, before attending to the horses. * * * * * The sheriff was burning with fever, tossing his arms, mumbling incoherently all the while. After a breakfast, in which the sheriff did not join him, Cowan brought a pail of the cold water to the house and proceeded to give the sheriff a sponge bath. This treatment seemed to sooth the sick man, and he dropped into a slumber. Cowan found an old pair of hopples, which he put on the sheriff’s horse, and turned his own mount loose to forage. There was little to be done. Cowan did not want to leave the sick man long enough to go after a doctor, which would take at least two days; so there was only one thing for him to do, and that was to stay and see it through, hoping that someone might come along and lend them a hand. For the next three days and nights he worked with the sheriff. There were no medicines of any kind, and it seemed to be a losing battle. He killed a steer and made beef broth, which the sheriff could not eat, gave him both cold and hot baths, worked over him like a mother over a child, and on the evening of the third day the sheriff awoke--conscious for the first time. * * * * * After a period of deliberation he remembered starting out after Red Cowan. Seated near the bed, his head in his hands, snoring loudly, was a red-headed man. The sheriff did not know any red-headed men. He was very weak; so he shut his eyes and tried to think. After a while he heard the man move, and opened his eyes. “That’s better,” said the red-head wearily. “Who are you?” asked the sheriff, and was surprised that his voice was so weak. “I’m Red Cowan.”