“Arm smashed and a scalp wound. All depends on the care he gets. Well--” Peter straightened and wiped his forehead, looking thoughtfully at Rawley, half lying in a big chair, his long legs spread limply, his face white and streaked with blood, “--we owe him good care, I guess. He must have killed Queo after he’d been shot in the arm. And he’s saved this outfit some trouble. I didn’t tell you--but Queo was laying for a chance at us. Well--run and get that cot here.” Nevada pushed back her craning family and sent them running here and there on errands. Her grandfather and Jess, the husband of Gladys, looked at her inquiringly from the porch of the shack. Rawley might have thought it strange that they remained mere bystanders during the excitement. But Nevada did not seem to notice their indifference. “Queo shot him twice--but he killed Queo,” she told them. “Uncle Jess, you’re to get his spring cot, Uncle Peter says, and fix a bed in there.” Her eyes went challengingly to her grandfather. “Uncle Peter says we owe them the best care we can give,” she stated clearly. “He says they have saved some lives in this family.” The tall, bearded old patriarch looked at her frowningly. He glanced toward the rock cabin, grunted something unintelligible to the girl, and went in to his interrupted dinner. CHAPTER TEN A FAMILY TREE It seemed as fantastic as a troubled dream. To be lying there helpless, to look across and see Johnny Buffalo staring grimly up at the ceiling, his face set stoically to hide the pain that burned beneath the white bandage, held no semblance of reality. Was it that morning only, that they had left the car and started out to walk to the “great and high mountain”? Perhaps several days had passed in oblivion. He did not know. To Rawley the shock of drifting back from unconsciousness to these surroundings had been as great as the shock of incredulous slipping down and down into blackness. He moved his head a half-inch. The pain brought his eyebrows together, but he made no sound. Johnny Buffalo must not be worried. “All right again, are you?” Peter moved into Rawley’s range of vision. “You had a close squeak. The thickness of your skull between you and death--that was all. The bullet skinned along on the outside instead of the inside.” “I’ll be all right then,” Rawley muttered thickly. “Don’t mean to be a nuisance. Soon as this grogginess lets up--” “You’ll be less trouble where you are,” Peter interrupted him bluntly. “I’ve done all I can for you now, so I’ll go back to my work. The Injun’s making out all right, too. Head clear as a bell, near as I can judge. I’ll see you this evening, and if there’s anything you want, either of you, just pound that toy drum beside you. That will bring one of the women.”