When this was brought him and he had drunk of it, it seemed to give him strength. “How are you, father?” he said, with a ghastly attempt at a smile. “What has happened to you, Tom?” asked his father. “I been shot. Oh, I got bored pretty,” he groaned. “But I'm a heap better than I was—-where you going?” “To call your sister.” “You needn't. Plenty of time to see her in the morning. Give me another pull at that,” nodding toward the bottle which Ephriam still held in his hand. “How did it happen, Tom?” “Indians,” said Tom, speaking with difficulty. “I been in the army back at Fort Laramie, but I'm on the mend now.” “But how did you get here in this condition?” demanded Ephriam. “Friends brought me—was almost well, but coming in I got a fall from my horse, and my wound opened; had to lay by in camp on the Weber for a week,” he explained between gasps. His father got him into his own room, where he propped him up on the edge of the bed and silently rendered him what aid he could in removing his clothes. Almost the first thing the wounded man did was to take from about his waist a heavy belt that gave out a metallic sound as it slipped from his weak fingers and fell to the floor. “Pick it up, father, and shove it under my pillow. It's my savings,” he said, with a sickly nervous grin. Once in bed, fatigue and great bodily weakness together with the generous stimulant he had taken, caused him to fall at once into a troubled doze. Ephriam drew up a chair and seated himself at his son's bedside. Tom had been gone for over a year, and their parting had not been a friendly one; but his present anxiety made him forget all this. Tom seemed very ill to him, as he lay there pale and haggard in the light of the single candle, and though he slept he was neither silent nor motionless; he moved restlessly, with strange mutterings and chokings. Ephriam could see the bloody, dirty bandages that swathed his right shoulder, where the collar of his shirt had been cut away, and he wondered how serious the wound was. Suddenly he started. The name of Landray was on Tom's lips. Then the wounded man woke with a start, and seeing a look on his father's face which he did not understand, demanded: “What am I saying, father?” “Nothing, Tom, nothing,” said the old man brokenly. “Humph!” said Tom, and turning his face to the wall, slept again. CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE