“Thanks.” Betty’s little smile, with its hint of sarcasm, suggested that there was not the least need of the revolver; if she wore it, the only reason was to humor his vanity and let him feel that he was protecting her. She crossed the valley and climbed the ridge. From the farther side of it she looked down upon a log cabin of two rooms, a small stable, and a corral. They nestled in a draw at her feet, so close that a man could have thrown a stone almost to the fence. The hillside was rough with stones. With Justin’s mishap in mind, she felt her way down carefully. Smoke poured out of the chimney and polluted the pure light air. No need of seeing the fire inside to know that the wood was resinous fir. Betty knocked on the door. It opened. Black stood on the threshold looking down at her in ludicrous amazement. She had taken off her coat and was carrying it. Against a background of white she bloomed vivid as a poinsettia in her old-rose sweater and jaunty tam. The cold crisp air had whipped the scarlet into her lips, the pink into her cheeks. “What in--Mexico!” he exclaimed. “How’s Mr. Hollister?” “A mighty sick man. Howcome you here, miss?” The sound of a querulous voice came from within. “Tell you I don’t want the stuff. How many times I got to say it?” “I’ve come to nurse him. Billy brought us word. Father wasn’t home--nor Lon. So Mr. Merrick brought me.” “Merrick,” he repeated. “He’s over the hill, a ways back. Broke a ski. He’d like you to take him a pair. I’ll look after Mr. Hollister.” As she followed the lank range rider into the cabin, she pulled off her gauntlets. Her cold fingers fumbled with the ski ties. “Lemme do that,” Black said, and dropped on a knee to help. “I guess you can do it quicker.” She looked at the patient and let her voice fall as she asked a question. “Is he delirious?” “Crazy as a hydryphoby skunk.” He repeated what he had said before. “A mighty sick man, looks like.” Betty looked into the hot, fevered face of the man tossing on the bed. From her medicine kit she took a thermometer. His fever was high. She prepared medicine and coaxed him to swallow it. “Where is he wounded?” she asked. “In the side.” “Did you wash out the wound and bind it up?” “Yes’m. I’ve took care of fellows shot up before.” “Bleed much?” “Right smart. Did you hear when Doc Rayburn was comin’?” “He’s on the way.” She found cold water and bathed the burning face. “Wisht he’d hustle along,” the range rider said uneasily. “He won’t be long.” With a flare of anger she turned on Black. “Who shot him?” “I dunno. He was shot through the window whilst he was ondressin’ for bed. We come together from the old Thorwaldson cabin a while before.” “Did that Cig do it?” “Might have, at that.” Black was putting on his webs. “Reckon I’ll drift back an’ pick up yore friend Merrick.” “Yes,” she said absently. “It was that tramp Cig or Jake Prowers, one.”