"Ah, come off! A lot I've done; though I do believe it was better to keep up a steady flow of chatter than to be asking you every ten yards how you were feeling.... Hi, there! I've brought your friend Power; but he's in rather bad shape. Had a fall up in the Gulch, and one leg is crocked." The pony needed no urging to halt, and Power, whose head was sunk between his shoulders, looked as if he would become insensible again at the mere thought of renewed exertion. "A fall!" repeated MacGonigal, moving ponderously to the near side, and peering up into Power's face. "Well, ef I ain't dog-goned! What sort of a fall?" "Just the common variety--downward," said Benson. "His left leg is broken below the knee. Can you hold him until I hitch this fiery steed to a post? Then I'll help carry him to a bedroom. After that, if I can be of any use, tell me what to do, or where to go--for the doctor, I mean." By this time MacGonigal had assured himself that Power's clothing was not full of bullet-holes, and he began to believe that Benson, whom he recognized, was telling the truth. "Give him to me," he said, with an air of quiet self-confidence. "Back of some sugar casks in the warehouse thar you'll find a stretcher. Bring that along, an' we'll lay him in the veranda till the doc shows up." Soon the hardly conscious sufferer was reposing with some degree of comfort in a shaded nook with his back to the light. MacGonigal, whose actions were strangely deft-handed and gentle for so stout a man, was persuading him to drink some brandy. "He has collapsed all at once," said Benson commiseratingly. "He perked up and chatted in great shape while I was bringing him through the Gulch." "Did he now?... Yes, Derry, it's me, Mac. Just another mouthful.... An' what did he talk about, Mr. Benson?" "Oh, mostly about the wedding, I guess." "Nat'rally. He'd be kind of interested in hearin' how Marten had scooped up Nancy Willard." Some acrid quality in the storekeeper's tone must have pierced the fog which had settled on Power's brain. He raised a hand to push away the glass held to his lips. "Say, I've only secured a broken leg, Mac," he murmured, smiling into the anxious face bent over him. "I don't want to be doped as well. Perhaps Mr. Benson will mount that nag of his, and bring Peters." "Look-a here, Derry, hadn't we better send to Denver?" "No. Peters has set dozens of legs and arms." "I guess he's back at the ranch. He went thar, an' I hain't seen him among the crowd." "Is he a tall, red-whiskered chap, with a nose that needs keeping out of the sun?" broke in Benson. "Yep. That's him." "Well, he's there now--and--not so bad. Does he really understand bone-setting?" "Sure. He's all to rights when not too much in likker." "I'll have him here in half an hour." Benson whistled to the dog, and they heard the clattering hoofbeats of the cob's hurried departure. MacGonigal brought a chair, and sat by his friend's side.