And Taylor had been remarkably considerate; for he had not even permitted her to know of the accident until after noon. That indicated that he had no intention of forcing himself on her. She hesitated, saw Martha grinning into a hand, looked at the puncher’s expressionless face, and felt that she had been rather prudish. Her cheeks flushed with color. Taylor had actually been a martyr on a small scale in confining himself to the bunkhouse, when he could have enjoyed the comforts and spaciousness of the ranchhouse if it had not been for her own presence. “Is—is his ankle badly sprained?” she hesitatingly asked the now sober-faced puncher. “Kind of bad, ma’am; he ain’t been able to do no walkin’ on it. Been hobblin’ an’ swearin’, mostly, ma’am. It’s sure a trial to be near him.” “And it is warm here; it must be terribly hot in that little place!” She was at the edge of the porch now, her face radiating sympathy. “I am not surprised that he should swear!” she told the puncher, who grinned and muttered: “He’s sure first class at it, ma’am.” “Why,” she said, paying no attention to the puncher’s compliment of his employer, “he is hurt, and I have been depriving him of his house. You tell him to come right out of that stuffy place! Help him to come here!” And without waiting to watch the puncher depart, she darted into the house, pulled a big rocker out on the porch, got a pillow and arranged it so that it would form a resting-place for the injured man’s head—providing he decided to occupy the chair, which she doubted—and then stood on the edge of the porch, awaiting his appearance. Inside the bunkhouse the puncher was grinning at Taylor, who, with his right foot swathed in bandages, was sitting on a bench, anxiously awaiting the delivery of the puncher’s message. “Well, talk, you damned grinning inquisitor!” was Taylor’s greeting to the puncher. “What did she say?” “At first she didn’t seem to be a heap overjoyed to know that you was in this country,” said the other; “but when she heard you’d been hurt she sort of stampeded, invitin’ you to come an’ set on the porch with her.” Taylor got up and started for the door, the bandaged foot dragging clumsily. “Shucks,” drawled the puncher; “if you go to _runnin’_ to her she’ll have suspicions. Accordin’ to my notion, she expects you to come a hobblin’, same as though your leg was broke. ‘Help him to come,’ she told me. An’ you’re goin’ that way—you hear me! I’ll bust your ankle with a club before I’ll have her think I’m a liar!” “Maybe I _was_ a little eager,” grinned Taylor. An instant later he stepped out of the bunkhouse door, leaning heavily on the puncher’s shoulder. The two made slow progress to the porch; and Taylor’s ascent to the porch and his final achievement of the rocking-chair were accomplished slowly, with the assistance of Miss Harlan. Then, with a face almost the color of the scarlet neckerchief he wore, Taylor watched the retreat of the puncher.