As Mr. Masterson bent over Cimarron, some unauthorized person came from out the darkness. “Whom have you got there?” As the one in search of knowledge hove in reach, Mr. Masterson smote him upon the head with his heavy eight-inch pistol. The inquiring one went over backward, and Mr. Masterson was pleased to see that he fell free of the wheels. Yes, it was right; the unknown had sinned the sin of an untimely curiosity. The engine whistled, the train moved, and Mr. Masterson packed the unconscious Cimarron into the car and placed him in the nearest seat. There were half a dozen passengers scattered about; all were soundly slumbering. Mr. Masterson drew a breath of relief, and wiped his face; for the night was an August night and the work had been hot. Then he rearranged Cimarron’s blankets, and threw a cupful of water in his face by way of restorative. That, and the breeze through the lifted window, caused Cimarron to open his eyes. “Give me some whiskey.” Mr. Masterson looked conscience-stricken. “I forgot the whiskey!” “Forgot the whiskey!” repeated Cimarron, in feeble scorn. “What kind of a rescue party do you call this? I’d sooner have stayed where I was! Besides, I had it laid out how I’d finish shootin’ up that Jenkins party the moment I could totter over to the Sheaf of Wheat.” Mr. Masterson, to whom the petulance of the sick was as nothing, vouchsafed no return, and Cimarron sank back exhausted. When the conductor appeared, the wary Mr. Masterson met that functionary in the car door. “Got any children?” asked Mr. Masterson. “Five,” said the conductor, whom it is superfluous to say was a married man; “five; an’ another in the shops.” “The reason I ask,” observed Mr. Masterson, “is that my brother over there has measles, and I wouldn’t want you to go packing it back to your babies. I have to wrap him up to keep him from catching cold. The doctor said that if he ever caught cold once we’d have some fun.” While Mr. Masterson was exploring Ogallala and perfecting his scheme of rescue, he had purchased tickets to Grand Island. He bought tickets to Grand Island because he intended to get off at North Platte; the ticket-buying was a ruse and meant to break the trail. The conductor, as he received Mr. Masterson’s tickets, thanked him for his forethought in defending his children from the afflicted brother. “I’m a father myself,” said Mr. Masterson, who in amplification of any strategy was ever ready to round off one mendacity with another. The dawn was showing when the train drew in at North Platte. Shouldering the helpless Cimarron, Mr. Masterson stepped onto the deserted station platform. Cimarron gave a querulous groan. “Where be you p’intin’ out for now?” he demanded. “I’m gettin’ a heap tired of this rescue. It’s too long, an’ besides it’s too toomultuous.” “Tired or no,” responded Mr. Masterson, steadily, “you’re going to be rescued just the same.”