"Ugh!" It was a grunt from outside. "I just wanted to be sure you were there. Call me when Mr. Thayer has passed the ridge." "Ugh!" Medaine turned again to Ba'tiste, a childish appearance of confidence in her eyes, her hand lingering on the chair by the bed. "Were you really fooling, Ba'tiste--or shall we continue?" "Perhaps--" the twinkle still shone in the old man's eyes--"but not now. Perhaps--sometime. So mebbe sometime you--" "Wah--hah--hai-i-e-e-e!" The Sioux had called from without. Medaine turned. "When you need me, Ba'tiste," she answered, with a smile that took in also the eager face on the bed, "I'll be glad to help you. Good-by." That too included Barry, and he answered it with alacrity. Then for a moment after she had gone, he lay scowling at Ba'tiste, who once more, in a weakened state of merriment, had reeled to the wall, followed as usual by his dog, and leaned there, hugging his sides. Barry growled: "You're a fine doctor! Just when you had me cured, you quit! I'd forgotten I even had a broken arm." "So?" Ba'tiste straightened. "You like her, eh? You like the petite Medaine?" "How can I help it?" "_Bon_! Good! I like you to like Medaine. You no like Thayer?" "Less every minute." "Bon! I no like heem. He try to take Pierre's place with Medaine. And Pierre, he was strong and tall and straight. Pierre, he could smile--_bon_! Like you can smile. You look like my Pierre!" came frankly. "Thanks, Ba'tiste." Barry said it in wholehearted manner. "You don't know how grateful I am for a little true friendliness." "Grateful? Peuff! You? Bah, you shall go back, and they will ask who helped you when you were hurt, and you--you will not even remember what is the name." "Hardly that." Barry pulled thoughtfully at the covers. "In the first place, I'm not going back, and in the second, I haven't enough true friends to forget so easily. I--I--" Then his jaw dropped and he lay staring ahead, out to the shadows beneath the pines and the stalwart cross which kept watch there. "I--" "You act funny again. You act like you act when I talk about my Julienne. Why you do eet?" Barry Houston did not answer at once. Old scenes were flooding through his brain, old agonies that reflected themselves upon his features, old sorrows, old horrors. His eyes grew cold and lifeless, his hands white and drawn, his features haggard. The chuckle left the lips of Ba'tiste Renaud. He moved swiftly, almost sinuously to the bed, and gripped the younger man by his uninjured arm. His eyes came close to Barry Houston, his voice was sharp, tense, commanding: "You! Why you act like that when I talk about murder? Why you get pale, huh? Why you get pale?" CHAPTER V The gaze of Ba'tiste Renaud was strained as he asked the question, his manner tense, excited. Through sheer determination, Barry forced a smile and pulled himself back to at least a semblance of composure.