Every dusky head was sheltered beneath the smoky canvas. No sign of life was about except the shaggy and dejected herd of squaw ponies which stood with backs hunched up and dripping tails turned toward the driving rain. Most of the Indians had rolled themselves in their blankets and were sound asleep despite the roaring storm. But within a certain wigwam there was unrest. Had one raised the rain-soaked door-flap, one might have seen in the dull glow of the dying coals, several dusky forms squatted about the fire, while another, rolled in a blanket, lay near. This one seemed to be in distress, for he tossed about from time to time. Once as the light blazed a little he threw himself with face toward the fire, which lit up his features and showed him to be not an Indian, but a white man. He mumbled something, and a squaw who was watching the sick man closely stepped to his side and gave him a drink of water. Then he rose to a sitting posture and began to rub his leg. “Too tight, heap hurt,” he half groaned. “Better soon,” his dusky nurse said comfortingly, while she loosened the bandages to ease his sorely wounded foot, saying as she did so, “Lie down, heap sleep, soon well.” The patient heeded only part of the advice; he threw himself back into his blanket muttering, “Ugh, heap hurt!” then grinding his teeth savagely, he added, half to himself, “I’ll fix the devils that put me in this fix.” “Maybe so killum white man, huh?” grunted one of the bucks sitting near. “Shoot ’em like dogs,” was the bitter reply. “Injun heap mad at cow men,” came the suggestive rejoinder. The sufferer, as will be easily guessed, was Bud Nixon. Luck had flung him among the Indians shortly after his precipitate departure from Morgan’s dance. A kind of stupid, stubborn pride had kept him from turning to any of the ranchers for help, though any one of them would have given cheerfully the assistance his distress called for. Rather than ask it, however, he wandered on aimlessly trying to show his grit, until, overcome by loss of blood, he swooned and fell from his horse. How long he lay in this faint he did not know. Luckily for him, two Indian hunters, following the mountain trail he had taken, found him stretched out, pale and bleeding, while his trusty horse cropped at the grass a few rods away. These dusky good Samaritans soon revived the wounded man and took him back to camp, where they left him in charge of old Towano, their medicine man, whose power to heal the sick was held in superstitious awe by the tribe, though the modern physicians would no doubt scoff at such clumsy attempts at healing as he used.