But before the party rode off, each man, from the sheriff to the youngest of the punchers, came to where Ashton was still lying on the grass, and took his limp hand in theirs. They did not grip it, for the tattered glove and shredded bandages were wet with blood; nor did they put into speech what they thought of him. A gruff word or two of fellowship and parting was all they gave him. Yet he saw and knew that he had won his place among these reddest blooded of all red-blooded men. When one of his fellow employes came to him, leading Rocket, he sought to summon strength enough to rise, but found that he could not even turn on his side. He had driven his body to superhuman efforts. He must now pay the price. At his request, he was lifted up on Rocket, but he could not hold up his head, much less his body. They laid him again on the grass, and told Knowles his condition, before they rode off. The cowman fetched the surgeon, who felt the pulse of the exhausted man, gave him a pellet, and hastened back to Blake. In a few moments Ashton's feeble, racing pulse became calm and slow, the wild whirl of his thoughts lulled. He sank into profound slumber. When he awoke the sun of another day was just clearing the great white peaks of the snowy range. He was outstretched on a soft bed of blankets spread over a thick layer of pine needles. Above his face sloped the roof of a small tent. He had been cared for--but there was no one watching at his bedside. He thought he understood, and smiled in bitter resignation. When he moved, racking pains shot through his stiff muscles. Only the renewed life that surged through his veins enabled him to turn and twist and bend until the pains subsided to a dull aching and he was able to command his limbs. His hands were swathed fast in bandages. He tore them off with his teeth until the fingers were free enough for use. After much effort, he succeeded in forcing his swollen feet into his boots. In the midst Yuki, the Jap cook, appeared before the low entrance of the tent and sank down on his knees to set a trayful of food beside the occupant. He hissed a pleasant, "Good morning, Mistah Lafe!" and was gone before Ashton could reply. The aroma of hot coffee and the savory smell of chicken broth forced Ashton to forget all else than that he was famished. Besides the coffee and broth, there was a nogg of eggs and thick cream slightly flavored with whiskey. He drank one liquid after the other with the greediness of a starving man; nor did he stop until he had drained the last drop of all three. He could have followed with a hearty meal of solids, but the fluids were enough to stimulate him to renewed energy.