Their words were hardly finished when the sound of hoofs broke the stillness. Pedro and Siwash snorted. Virginia and Vivian sat up quickly--one interested, the other alarmed. Some one was coming along the rough trail through the sagebrush. Some one was very near! They peered through the quaking-asps. The some one was a lone cowboy riding a buckskin horse. He was leaning forward in his saddle and clutching the horn. His face, almost covered by the big hat he wore, was close to the black mane of the sturdy little buckskin. From their shelter they watched him draw near with beating hearts. There was something strange about him--strange as the stillness. They could not see that he was guiding the horse, who apparently knew not only the way, but her mission as well. She came straight toward the shady thicket and stopped beneath the trees a few rods away from the two anxious spectators. Her rider, conscious perhaps from the halt that he had reached his destination, loosened his hold upon the saddle-horn, swung himself with a mighty effort from the saddle, and fell upon the ground, his hat all unnoticed falling from his head. The buckskin was apparently worried. She sniffed the air dubiously, snorted an anxious greeting to Pedro and Siwash, and moved to one side, lest by mistake she should tread upon her master, who lay in a motionless heap close beside her. Then Virginia's quick eyes discovered blood upon the man's head and face. She jumped to her feet. "He's hurt somehow, Vivian," she said, "terribly hurt, I'm afraid. We mustn't leave him like this. He might die here all alone! Come on! Let's see what we can do." Vivian, too surprised to remonstrate, followed Virginia through the quaking-asps. The man lay where he had fallen, unconscious of anything about him. Blood was flowing from an ugly wound just above his forehead. He was a sad and sorry sight. Vivian shuddered and drew back. "Who is he, Virginia?" she breathed. "You know who he is, don't you? Oh, what are you going to do?" For Virginia's strong young arms were trying to pull the man into a more comfortable position, and farther beneath the trees. "No, I don't know who he is," she whispered, fanning the man's white face with her broad-brimmed hat. "That doesn't make any difference. He's awfully hurt! I thought at first 'twas a shot, but I guess he's fallen. It looks like that. The horse belongs to Michner's. I know by the brand. Fan him, Vivian, while I fix his head and see if he has any whisky about him anywhere." The dazed and frightened Vivian obediently took the fan, and turning her face away, frantically fanned the quaking-asps until they danced and fluttered once more. Virginia untied the cow boy's slicker from the back of the buckskin's saddle and folded it into a pillow, which she placed beneath the sick man's head. The buckskin was relieved and whinnied her thanks. Then from one pocket she drew a small, leathern flask and shook it.