Johnny Buffalo’s moccasins left little trace in the gravelly soil. But here and there they left a mark, and Rawley got the direction and hurried on. Fifty yards farther up the ridge he glimpsed something yellowish-brown against a small juniper. A few feet farther, he saw that it was Johnny Buffalo, lying on his face, one arm thrown outward with the hand still grasping the stock of his rifle. He snatched up the rifle, crouched beside the Indian and searched the neighborhood with his eyes, trying to get a sight of the killer. In a moment he spied him, away down the deep ravine up which he and Johnny Buffalo had toiled not half an hour before. The man was running. Rawley raised the rifle to his shoulder, took careful aim and fired, but he had small hope of hitting his target at that distance. At the sound of the shot so close above him, Johnny Buffalo stirred uneasily, as if disturbed in his sleep. The man in the distance ducked out of sight amongst the bowlders; and that was the last Rawley saw of him at that time. “I must apologize for not taking you more seriously when you warned me,” said the girl, just behind him. “Is this--?” “My partner, Johnny Buffalo. He isn’t dead--he moved, just now--but I’m afraid he’s badly hurt.” Rawley lifted anxious blue eyes to her face. “We can carry him down to the trail. Then, if Deacon is all right when we get him up, we can put your partner on him and pack him home. It’s only a mile or so.” “It might be better to take him to Nelson,” Rawley amended the suggestion. “I could get a car there and take him on to Las Vegas, probably. Or some mine will have a doctor.” “It’s farther--and the heat, with the long ride, would probably finish him,” the girl pointed out bluntly. “On the other hand, a mile on the burro will get him home, where it’s cool and we can see how badly he’s hurt. And then, if he needs hospital care, Uncle Peter can take him down to Needles in the launch, this evening when it’s cool. I really don’t mean to be disagreeable and argumentative, but it seems to me that will be much the more comfortable plan for him. And I can’t help feeling responsible, in a way. I suppose he was trying to protect us, when he was shot.” Rawley looked up from an amateurish examination of the old man. The bullet wound was in the shoulder, and he was hoping that it was high enough so that the lung was not injured. His flask of brandy, placed at Johnny’s lips, brought a gulp and a gasp. The black eyes opened, looked from Rawley to the girl and closed again. “There! I believe he’s going to be all right,” the girl declared optimistically. “I’ll take his feet, and you carry his shoulders. When we get him down to the trail, I’ll have Grandmother look after him until we get the burros straightened out. Queo--or whoever it was--did you see him?”