Again he forced her reluctant throat to swallow the whisky, a few drops only. And again he bathed her with water--brow and throat and quiet wrists. Her eyes did not open now, but he saw that she was breathing. Presently he made her take a little water. He washed her dusty nostrils that she might breathe better. And that breath might come into her tired lungs more easily he gently, reverently loosened the clothing about her breasts. Not once did his eyes leave her face. He did not fire the shot which was to be a signal to the others, because he knew that they could not hear. Soon he would look for the wagon. It would pass closely enough for him to see it, near enough for him to make himself seen. Now he could do alone as much for her as could fifty men, as could any one. An hour passed, two hours. He had watched the color of life creep back into her face faintly, slowly, but steadily. She had again opened her eyes, had turned them for a puzzled second upon his tense face, had closed them. Now she seemed to be sleeping. He had exhausted the contents of one canteen, had gone to his saddle for the other, when far to the south he saw the wagon. He had waved his hat high above his head, standing like a circus-rider in the saddle, and had emptied the cylinder of his revolver into the air. He had seen that the driver had heard him, that he had fired an answering volley, that he had turned westward. And then he had gone back to Argyl. She had heard the shots. Her eyes were open and turned curiously upon him as he came swiftly to where she lay. "Will you give me some water?" she whispered. He lifted her head, and she drank thirstily, looking with reproachful surprise at him when he took the canteen from her lips. "That is all now, Argyl," he told her, his voice choking. And then, all power of restraint swept away from him by the joyous, throbbing love which so long he had silenced, he drew her close, closer to him, crying, almost harshly: "Oh, Argyl, thank God! For if you hadn't come back to me--I love you, love you! Don't you know how I love you, Argyl?" Her hand closed weakly upon his. "Of course, dear," she answered him, faintly, her poor lips trying to smile. "Of course we love each other. But can't I have a little water, dear?" CHAPTER XXIV It was the twentieth day of September by the calendar--ten days before the first of October as every man, woman, and child in the Valley measured time.