IT was one of those Augean tasks that at least once in a lifetime confront all earth-dwellers. But Mary Temple of the lustreless eye and the wispy hair was game to the very core. Dr. Shonto never knew how she suffered from that broken rib throughout the weary days of climbing and sliding back to the haunts of men. Most women suffer silently, and in some ways Mary Temple was a super-woman. She knew, and Dr. Shonto knew, that the broken rib could not mend under the strain that was put upon it. It was an ordeal of pain and torment which must be undergone, and Mary underwent it, acidulously cheerful, barkingly good-natured, a crusty good fellow from the bitter beginning to the bitter end. “Let the old thing hurt,” she said. “What’s the difference? You get used to pain in time. Our lives are all pain, but we don’t know it. We’re used to it. When we get to heaven we’ll wonder how we ever stood it here on earth, we were so miserable and didn’t know it.” This odd philosophy carried her through triumphantly to the lake, where they found the burros and horses still content with their mountain pasture. To ride, she discovered, was more painful than to walk. So she dragged herself on down to Mosquito and scolded the doctor every step of the way because he insisted on walking with her and leading the saddle horse on which he was to ride for help. At Mosquito, after the terrific strain of days of struggling over the rugged ridges, she collapsed and was put to bed, greatly to her disgust. “I’m a regular zingwham,” she sighingly announced. And questioned: “A zingwham is a fat girl thirteen years old that bawls when the boys call her ‘Pianolegs.’” And Shonto, days behind because of the slow progress made, hurried his horse on to Shirttail Bend, to find the chaotic ranch deserted by its owner. * * * * * Inman Shonto himself was about all in. As medical adviser to as obstinate a patient as any he had dealt with, he had not permitted Mary to carry a pound. (The ensuing argument over this, from the dismal cañon to Mosquito, had helped in his unstringing.) Rations had been short beyond the cache, and at that he had packed a torturing load. His back and shoulders ached; every muscle in his big body ached. His brain was leaden. The figure that camped for the night at the spring in the desert buttes did not closely resemble the fastidious Dr. Inman Shonto, unresponsive but idolized lady’s man, renowned gland specialist, popular clubman of the City of Los Angeles. It was with little zest that he collected petrified yucca for his campfire, fed rolled barley to his horse, and picketed him. Squatting over the coals, he fried bacon and made “cowboy’s bread” in the grease. A cup of strong black coffee finished his meal. Not ten minutes afterward he was rolled in his blankets.