"Jehoshaphat!" exclaimed Andy softly. "He's lucky to have you come trailin' down the pike just behind 'im. But see here, fellers," the driver turned to the others; "yer Uncle Samuel will dock me this time sure, fer the mail won't reach Meeteetse in time fer the stage up to Miners' Camp!" "Miners' Camp!" The exclamation burst involuntarily from Ross. He arose. The tape measure dropped from his hands. He drew his hand across his wet forehead. He had seen the stage load prepare to go on without a thought that he ought to go also. His one idea had been the care of the nameless man on the blankets. "Miners' Camp," he repeated; "why, I ought to go on!" "Not much," cried Hank in lively alarm. "What 'ud I do with him and all that toggery?" jerking his thumb over his shoulder at the chicken-coop. "Of course," was Ross's decision in a low tone, "I can't desert him--but I ought to go on." A few moments later, Andy's four bronchos pounded up the hill beyond the stage camp and disappeared, leaving Ross standing beside the window watching. The man on the blankets breathed heavily. A big yellow cat purred around Ross's legs. Hank poked the fire. "Guess I'll rustle some grub now," the latter said in awkward solicitude. "Ye're all in, ain't ye, Doc?" Ross turned from the window wearily without replying, and for the first time looked about the cabin. It was roughly boarded, with a hard dirt floor. In addition to the bench, the only seats were boxes in which "canned goods" had been stored away. A pile of wood lay behind an old stove propped up on boxes in lieu of legs. A cupboard containing some tin cups and thick plates, a few pans and skillets, and a shelf heaped with magazines half a year old completed the furnishings of the room. Suddenly Ross's eyes lighted on the wounded man's sheepskin coat, which had been cast hurriedly aside on the floor. Lifting it, he stepped to the door, and commenced to shake it energetically. Out of the breast pocket fell a small object. It hit the stone in front of the door with a metallic ring. Ross picked it up, and looked down into the photographed face of a winning girl with smiling eyes, curved lips, and plump cheeks. The picture was a little oval set in a gilt frame. On the back in a girlish hand was written the inscription, "To Lon Weston." "Weston, huh?" came Hank's voice at Ross's elbow. "I never heard of Lon Weston before. Wonder where he hails from." Hank glanced speculatively at the sleeper, then took a deep earthenware dish from the cupboard, beat its contents with a spoon, greased a skillet, and set it on the fire. "Men fergot t' eat," he grumbled, "'n' fergot t' feed the horses. They fergot everything except him. They'll be one hungry lot when they land in Meeteetse." He raised the smoking skillet, and gave a deft toss, which sent the flapjack spinning into the air, turned it over, and settled it back with the baked side uppermost.