"That was a fortunate occurrence--your going out and seeing the wolf;" said Blake. "If you hadn't taken that shot, we would not have known your rifle was out of gear. My first bullet merely made the sneak rise up to pot me. If the rapidity of the next three shots hadn't rattled him, I believe he would have potted me, instead of running." "So that was it?" exclaimed Ashton. "Do you know, I believe it must be the same scoundrel who attacked me the first day I rode down Dry Fork. No doubt he remembered how I ripped loose at him with the automatic-catch set." "Your thieving guide?" said Blake. "But why should he try to kill me?" "I'm sure I don't know," murmured Ashton. "Another drink, please." "I shall tote you back to camp, and--No, I'll lay you over there in the shade and go up to see if he is in sight." Picking up the wounded man as easily as if he had been a child, the engineer carried him over under a tree, fetched him the can of water, and for the second time climbed the rocky hillside. Scaling his lookout crag, he surveyed the country below him. A mile down the creek two riders were coming up towards the waterhole at an easy canter. He surmised that they were his wife and Miss Knowles. Their approach brought a shade of anxiety into his strong face. He swept the landscape with his glance. A little cloud of dust far out on the mesa towards Split Peak caught his eye. He looked at it steadfastly under his hand, and drew a deep breath of relief as he made out a fleeing horse and rider. He descended to Ashton, and taking him up pick-a-back, swung away for the camp with long, swift strides. Before he had gone half the distance, he felt Ashton's arms loosening their clasp of his neck. He caught him as he sank in a swoon. Without a moment's hesitation, he slung his senseless burden up on his shoulder like a sack of meal, and hastened on faster than before. Swiftly as he walked, the ladies reached the camp before him. When he came to the top of the dike slope, his wife had dismounted and Isobel was handing down the baby to her. As the girl slipped out of the saddle she looked up the slope. With a startled cry, she darted to meet Blake. Quick to forestall her alarm, he called in a gasping shout: "Not serious--not serious!" "Oh, Tom--Mr. Blake!" she cried. "What has happened?" "Scalp wound--faint--blood loss," Blake panted in terse answer. "He is wounded? O-o-oh!" She ran up and looked fearfully at the bloodsoaked bandages across Ashton's hanging head. Blake staggered on down the slope without pausing. Genevieve had started to meet him. But at her husband's panting explanation, she laid the baby on the nearest soft spot of earth and darted to the kit-chest. She was opening a "first aid" box when Blake crashed through the bushes and sank down with his burden under the first tree. Genevieve hastened towards the men, calling to her companion: "Water, Chuckie--that pail by the fireplace."