"If you go down there I am going, too!" she declared. "He might need some help," she added, seeing the objection in his eyes, "and if he does I may be able to give it to him. You know," she continued, smiling wanly, "I have had some experience with sick people." He said nothing more, but silently assisted her into the saddle and swung into his own. They urged the animals to a rapid pace, she following him eagerly. It was a rough trail, leading through many gullies, around miniature hills, into bottoms where huge boulders and treacherous sand barred the way, along the face of dizzy cliffs, and through lava beds where the footing was uncertain and dangerous. But in an hour they were on the plains and riding toward the break in the ridge of hills, where the shooting had been done. The man's pony had moved off a little and was grazing unconcernedly when they arrived. A brown heap in the grass told where the man lay, and presently Ferguson was down beside him, one of his limp wrists between his fingers. He stood up after a moment, to confront Miss Radford, who had fallen behind during the last few minutes of the ride. Ferguson's face was grave, and there was a light in his eyes that thrilled her for a moment as she looked at him. "He ain't dead, ma'am," he said as he assisted her down from her pony. "The bullet got him in the shoulder." She caught a queer note in his voice--something approaching appeal. She looked swiftly at him, suspicious. "Do you know him?" she asked. "I reckon I do, ma'am," he returned. "It's Rope Jones. Once he stood by me when he thought I needed a friend. If there's any chance I'm goin' to get him to your cabin--where you can take care of him till he gets over this--if he ever does." She realized now how this tragedy had shocked her. She reeled and the world swam dizzily before her. Again she saw Ferguson dart forward, but she steadied herself and smiled reassuringly. "It is merely the thought that I must now put my little knowledge to a severe test," she said. "It rather frightened me. I don't know whether anything can be done." She succeeded in forcing herself to calmness and gave orders rapidly. "Get something under his head," she commanded. "No, that will be too high," she added, as she saw Ferguson start to unbuckle the saddle cinch on his pony. "Raise his head only a very little. That round thing that you have fastened to your saddle (the slicker) would do very well. There. Now get some water!" She was down beside the wounded man in another instant, cutting away a section of the shirt near the shoulder, with a knife that she had borrowed from Ferguson. The wound had not bled much and was lower than Ferguson had thought. But she gave it what care she could, and when Ferguson arrived with water--from the river, a mile away--she dressed the wound and applied water to Rope's forehead.