Horrified, furious at this breach of discipline, Pierce ran to meet them, waving his hat and raising the wild yell, "Whoo-ee!" with which he was wont to head off and turn a bunch of steers. "Stop it! Get out!" he shouted as he succeeded in reaching the ears of one or two of the raiders. "It's all off--there's a girl here. Somebody sick! Skeedoo!" The shooting and the tumult died away. The horsemen vanished as swiftly, as abruptly, as they came, leaving their leader in panting, breathless possession of the field. He was sober enough now, and repentant, too. Slowly he returned to the door of the shack with vague intent to apologize. Something very sudden and very terrible must have fallen upon the postmaster. After some hesitation he knocked timidly on the door. "Have they gone?" the girl asked. "Yes; I've scared 'em away. They didn't mean no harm, I reckon. I want to know can't I be of some kind of use?" The door opened cautiously and the girl again appeared. She was very pale and held a pistol in her hand, but her voice was calm. "You're very good," she said, "and I'm much obliged. Who are you?" "I am Roy Pierce, foreman for McCoy, a cattleman north of here." "Was it really a band of Indians?" "Naw. Only a bunch of cow-punchers on a bat." "You mean cowboys?" "That's what. It's their little way of havin' fun. I reckon they didn't know you was here. I didn't. Who's sick?" "My uncle." "You mean the postmaster?" "Yes." "When was he took?" "Last night. They telegraphed me about six o'clock. I didn't get here till this morning--I mean yesterday morning." "What's the ail of him?" "A stroke, I'm afraid. He can't talk, and he's stiff as a stake. Oh, I wish the doctor would come!" Her anxiety was moving. "I'll try to find him for you." "I wish you would." "You aren't all alone?" "Yes; Mrs. Gilfoyle had to go home to her baby. She said she'd come back, but she hasn't." Roy's heart swept a wide arc as he stood looking into the pale, awed, lovely face of the girl. "I'll bring help," he said, and vanished into the darkness, shivering with a sense of guilt. "The poor old cuss! Probably he was sick the very minute I was bullyragging him." The local doctor had gone down the valley on a serious case, and would not be back till morning, his wife said, thereupon Roy wired to Claywall, the county-seat, for another physician. He also secured the aid of Mrs. James, the landlady of the Palace Hotel, and hastened back to the relief of the girl, whom he found walking the floor of the little kitchen, tremulous with dread. "I'm afraid he's dying," she said. "His teeth are set and he's unconscious."