McKay bent over, and opening the rough shirt felt Loring’s heart. “No, he’s alive still, but he’s pretty close to gone,” he answered. He untwisted the tight clenched fingers from the bridle, and half raised the unconscious body. It lay limp in his arms. He turned to one of the foremen who were gathered around. “Smith, get a horse and ride like hell for the company doctor!” The man was off for the corral in an instant. “Now, Miss, you just leave him to us!” went on McKay. “See now, your skirt is getting all blood.” For reply, she raised Loring’s head gently and placed it in her lap. “Now, send some one for blankets and water,” she directed. “_Agua_, hey, _ag-ua_!” shouted McKay, and in a minute a little pale-faced water boy came stumbling up with a bucket of muddy water. McKay looked on in wonder while the girl deftly washed the dirt from the wounds. “She has her nerve,” he thought. “There ain’t nothing like a woman.” One of the Mexicans came back from the cook tent with a blanket, and upon this they gently lifted Stephen. Then four men carried him to the nearest tent. Jean walked beside them, holding her wet handkerchief tightly against Loring’s forehead, in vain attempt to stop the bleeding. They laid him on the ground, inside the tent. “Now you must go, Miss Cameron,” implored McKay. “I’ll send you up to camp in one of the teams. Your father would never forgive me if I let you stay. Why you are as pale as—” The girl interrupted him decisively. “Are there any cloths here for bandages?” He looked hopelessly around the tent with its pile of dirty quilts. “I don’t see anything,” he murmured. Jean seized the soft white stock about her neck, and with a quick tug tore it off. “This will do,” she breathed, as she placed the impromptu bandage about Loring’s head. “Now tie this! I can’t pull it tightly enough.” McKay drew the ends of the bandage together, and clumsily knotted them. Then he thought of his one universal remedy. Meekly turning to Jean he asked: “How about some whisky for him?” She nodded, and he drew a flask from his pocket. With strong fingers he pried open Stephen’s jaws, and poured the whisky down his throat. The stimulant brought a slight color to the mask-like face. “I guess he would sure enjoy this some, if he were conscious,” thought McKay grimly. The men had been sent back to work, and only he and Miss Cameron knelt in the tent by Stephen, feeling anxiously for the slow heart-beats in the big helpless frame. Then came the pound of horses’ hoofs on the road, the sliding sound of a pony flung back in full career upon his haunches, and the doctor stood pulling open the flaps of the tent. Jean rose to her feet. “I shall only be in the way now,” she said, and stepped outside into the vivid sunlight. CHAPTER III