"Nice-looking girl that!" he muttered absently, immediately adding, "Here ye are--flapjacks 'n' coffee!" Late in the afternoon the injured man aroused himself groaning. He stared at Ross with eyes which gradually cleared as a realization of his environment was borne in on him. "I say, Doc," he muttered, biting his lips with the pain, "I'm all to the bad, ain't I?" "Leg's used up for a few days, that's all, Mr. Weston," returned Ross cheerfully. The man turned his head quickly. His eyes widened and he seemed to forget his pain. For a long moment he lay motionless looking from Ross to Hank, who grinned hospitably at him from the stove. "Cheer up down there," said Hank in jovial strain, "the worst is yet t' come, fer I'm makin' ye some puddin', and even my mother 'ud say that puddin' ain't one of my strong pints!" The sick man did not smile. He merely stared at the speaker until Hank disappeared, a water pail in hand, bound for the spring. Then he threw out a hand toward Ross and asked abruptly: "Where did you get it?" Ross, turning a flapjack awkwardly, looked inquiringly over his shoulder. "Get what?" "The name--Weston?" Ross smiled and then, partly because he was embarrassed and partly because he thought the injured man would be, turned his back before answering, "A picture fell out of your coat and I--we--saw the name written on the back, 'Lon Weston.'" There was no reply, and presently Ross added, "I put the photo back in your pocket and hung the coat above your head there on the peg. Guess you can reach it." Still no reply, and Ross, looking around, found his patient with head turned away, eyes closed and lips pressed tightly together in his beard. Suddenly, in the open doorway appeared a figure that Ross had not seen before. A shaggy head was advanced cautiously within the cabin and the owner peered at Weston curiously. Then, evidently understanding his closed eyes to mean sleep, the stranger backed out precipitately and sat down on the bench outside the door. From this vantage point he peered around the jamb from time to time eyeing Ross and his patient in turn. "Good-evening," said the former as the stranger showed no signs of speaking. The shaggy head appeared in the doorway and nodding briefly, was withdrawn, just as Hank, coming with the water, called, "Well, Sheepy, what's the latest word up your way?" It was Luther, otherwise "Sheepy," the herder whose wagon crowned the adjacent hill. He was Hank's daily caller. "There ye are, Doc," exclaimed Hank entering with the water. "Puddin' fer Weston, and flapjacks 'n' coffee fer you and me with cabbage 'n' spuds thrown in. Fill up." It was a menu which was not varied to any great extent in the days which followed, strange days for "Doc Tenderfoot," as Hank called Ross. [Illustration: "WHAT'S THE LATEST WORD?"]