"How can we ever thank you, how can we!" cried the girl who had fainted when the chase had begun. "It was splendid, splendid!" she cried, swaying in her weakness. She was so white and bruised and frail that The Orphan felt pity for her and started to say something, but had no chance. The three women monopolized the conversation even to the exclusion of Bill, who suddenly felt that his talking ability was only commonplace after all. Blood trickled slowly down the outlaw's face as he smiled at them and tried to calm them, and the younger sister, suddenly realizing the meaning of what she had vaguely seen, turned to Bill with an imperative gesture. "Bring me some water, driver, immediately," she commanded impatiently, and Bill hurried around to the rear axle from which swung a small keg of three gallons' capacity. Quickly unsnapping the chain from it he returned and pried out the wooden plug, slowly turning the keg until water began to flow through the hole and trickle down to the sand. Miss Shields took a small handkerchief from her waist and unfolded it, to be stopped by Bill. "Don't spoil that, miss!" he hastily exclaimed. "Take one of mine. They ain't worth much, and besides, they're a whole lot bigger." "Thank you, but this is better," she replied, smiling as she regarded the dusty neck-kerchief which he eagerly held out to her. She wet the bit of clean linen and Bill followed her as she stepped to the side of the outlaw, holding the keg for her and thinking that the sheriff was not the only thoroughbred to bear the name of Shields. He turned the keg for her as she needed water, and she bathed the wound carefully, pushing back the long hair which persisted in getting in her way, all the time vehemently declining the eager offers of assistance from her companions. The Orphan had involuntarily raised his hand to stop her, feeling foolish at so much attention given to so trivial a wound and not at all accustomed to such things, especially from women with wonderful deep, black eyes. "Please do not bother me," she commanded, pushing his hand aside. "You can at least let me do this little thing, when you have done so much, or I shall think you selfish." He stood as a bad boy stands when unexpectedly rewarded for some good deed, uncomfortable because of the ridiculous seriousness given to his gash, and ashamed because he was glad of the attention. He tried not to look at her, but somehow his eyes would not stray from her face, her heavy mass of black hair and her wonderful eyes. "You make me think that I'm really hurt," he feebly expostulated as he capitulated to her deft hands. "Now, if it was a real wound, why it might be all right. But, pshaw, all this fuss and feathers about a scratch!"