“Yore guess is as good as mine,” he said, buttoning to the neck a leather coat. “Can’t we have more light in here? It’s dark. If you’d draw back that window curtain--” “Then Mr. Bushwhacker would get a chanct for another shot,” he said dryly. “No, I reckon we’ll leave the curtain where it’s at.” Her big startled eyes held fascinated to his. “You don’t think they’d shoot him again now.” “Mebbeso. My notion is better not give ’em a show to get at him. You keep the door closed. I’ll not be long. I see you got a gun.” There was something significant in the way he said it. Her heart began to beat fast. “You don’t think--?” “No, I don’t. If I did, I’d stay right here. Not a chanct in a hundred. How far back’s yore friend?” “Less than a mile.” “Well, he’s likely been movin’ right along. When I reach the ridge, I’ll give him the high sign an’ leave the skis stickin’ up in the snow there.” “Yes.” And, as he was leaving, “Don’t be long,” she begged. “Don’t you be scared, miss. Them sidewinders don’t come out in the open an’ do their wolf-killin’. An’ I won’t be gone but a li’l’ while. If anything worries you, bang away with that .38 an’ I’ll come a-runnin’.” He closed the door after him. From behind the curtain she watched him begin the ascent. Then she went back to her patient and bathed his hot hands. Betty echoed the wish of the range rider that the doctor would come. What could be keeping him? From the Diamond Bar K ranch to Wild Horse was only a few miles. He must have started before she did. It would not be long now. In spite of a two days’ growth of beard, the young fellow on the bed looked very boyish. She gently brushed back the curls matted on the damp forehead. He was rambling again in desultory speech. “A cup o’ cold water--cold lemonade. Happy days, she says. No trouble friendship won’t lighten, she says, with that game smile lighting up her face. Little thoroughbred.” A warm wave of exultant emotion beat through her blood. It reached her face in a glow of delicate beauty that transformed her. “You dear boy!” she cried softly, and her eyes were shining stars of tender light. CHAPTER XXVII THE MAN WITH THE BLEACHED BLUE EYES There was not much she could do for him except bathe again his face and hands. He asked for a drink, and Betty propped him up with her arm while she held the tin cup to his lips. Exhausted by the effort, he sank back to the pillow and panted. All the supple strength of his splendid youth had been drained from him. The muscles were lax, the movements of the body feeble. Sunken eyes stared at her without recognition. “Sure I’ll take your hand, and say ‘Thank you’ too. You’re the _best_ little scout, the best ever.” She took the offered hand and pressed it gently. “Yes, but now you must rest. You’ve been sick.”