“For the mail,” Gus repeated. “When I reached town I tied my bronc up an’ stopped for a second outside Rimor’s Place, thinkin’ of Checkered Shirt. But I thought there was no use in goin’ in there to look, ’cause, even if I did find him, I didn’t have nothin’ on him. So I started for the post-office.” He hesitated, while Mr. Manley wound the improvised bandage tightly about the arm. “Well,” he continued, “just then Rimor’s door swung open and a puncher came out. He took a quick look at me, turned around, an’ ducked back again. Boss, that’s plenty tight! Where was I? Yea--he ran in again. “Thinks I, I’ve seen that buckeroo some place before. Then it hits me like a load of bricks. It was Gilly Froud!” Teddy and Roy started back. Mr. Manley looked up into the eyes of the injured man. “Go ahead, Gus,” the cattle owner said tensely. “What else?” “Well, I couldn’t let a chance like that slip by, so I made a jump for the door an’ followed. The second I got inside, I seen my mistake. Froud was leanin’ against the bar, gun out, starin’ my way. We had a few words about them stolen horses, an’ all of a sudden before I could make a move he blazed at me an’ put my arm out of commish. I couldn’t do nothin’ then, crippled like that, except let out a few of my opinions about Froud, but he only laughed an’ tole me to bring my army next time. So I hopped back on Axlegrease an’ come home. Here’s yore mail.” Reaching inside his shirt, Gus drew out several letters. He made as though to hand them to Mr. Manley. Suddenly his body went limp. His head dropped forward, and the envelopes fell from his nerveless fingers. Roy leaped forward just in time to keep the cowboy from pitching off the stool to the ground. “The nervy fellow!” Teddy said slowly, looking first at the letters and then at the still form of Gus. “Gets shot, goes to the post-office for the mail, an’ rides twelve miles back home with his arm still bleeding!” The boy looked at the unconscious man with open admiration. Then, bending swiftly down, he seized the puncher’s shoulders. “Where’ll we take him?” he asked of his father. “In here?” motioning toward the cook-house. “No, better take him to the house,” Mr. Manley suggested, looking at Gus closely. “He’s out, cold! No wonder! Ridin’ twelve miles under that sun with a hole ripped in his arm! He sure is a nervy boy!” “I’ll tell a maverick!” Roy exploded. “Come on, Teddy, we’ll lift him over to the house. Sing Lung, you run ahead and tell mother to get a bed ready. And talk English, not Chinese.” “Me fixee! Me fixee!” Sing Lung chattered, setting out on a run. With Teddy at his shoulders and Roy at his feet, Gus was soon being carried toward the ranch house. Mr. Manley walked alongside, holding the injured arm so that it should not hang down.