Down the trail there was a small procession coming to the relief of the starved-out camp. Helen had seen an Indian, and as they all fairly worshipped her as a superior being there was not one of them who would not have coursed all over the State of Wyoming to do her a service. She sent to Shoshone for food, and they were now on the road. Even Snakes had come along, leaving his hotel to the care of his help. Dan and Mike were also of the relief-party. Mike had hurt his foot and found it a difficult matter to walk. They had ridden to the place, all but Mike, whose pony had somehow gone so lame that they were obliged to leave him. The others would have changed off with him and let him ride, but he took this as an insult to his manhood, that he should be treated like a baby, or, worse yet, a tenderfoot. “Well, then, come on. You are worse than a pack of English tenderfoots. If we are going to find the Angel and her friends, we must get a move on. That’s what we must.” “What do you think we are? A bunch of burros or mountain-goats? Do you think we can climb these rocks the same as if they was flat prairie?” said Dan, angry that Mike should be treated so badly, for they all knew that Mike never shirked in anything from work to a free fight. “Don’t mind Shoshone, Mike; he is stabbed by the spurs of love, and he don’t know what he is saying half the time. He’s got cactus stickers in his topknot, and he’s as sassy as a loon. Let him rave. Let him rave.” “Well, you all know that I busted my saddle-girth a while back and that dumped me out like a bag of flour, and kind ’er twisted my ankle.” They all laughed at the wry face Mike made, but he sat down, obstinately saying: “Now, look here, fellows; this is nothing to laugh at. I’ve heard of people faintin’ away with this, and I ain’t no coward when it comes to it, and that you all know. I must rest this foot a little, and that’s all there is to it.” “Snakes, you stay here with Mike and we’ll push on. Somehow, I’ve got a hunch that we’re needed up at the claim,” said Shoshone. “No,” said Mike, “you all stay for ten minutes. That’s all I ask.” “Well, then, did you sprain your warbler, too? If not, then let’s sing, to ease the pain,” said Shoshone. He well knew the virtues of the singing to the cattle, so why not try it on the suffering man? So he started the song and the rocky canyon resounded with the melody, for these men make real music with their singing out in the open. And scarcely had they finished the song than they heard a familiar “Whoo-hoo,” and, with one accord, they said: “The Angel. No use talking, our warbling would bring the angels down. Whoo-hoo, Angel, this way!” “I am awfully glad to see you, boys,” said Helen, as she climbed down the declevity. “We’ve been hunting for game and found none, and are pretty well starved out up there. And the little fellow needs better food.”