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“My papa—he’s hurt—”

“Where’s he at?”

“Over there.” She pointed. “Uncle Hank went—Shorty—Oh, hurry!”

Thompson began circling toward the other side of the herd, Hilda on the saddle in front of him. McGregor of the Cross K thundered up behind them.

“Is it Charley?” called Thompson.

“Yes.” McGregor checked a little to explain, “Buster says he ran into an old cow—rode her down full tilt. Horse’s neck’s broke.”

They suddenly rounded the shoulder of the herd, that mass of dark, bellowing, pawing life, with its restless hoofs and shaken horns, and came in sight of a group at a little distance from its edge, motionless, with a sense of arrest. Three men, four ponies, and something dark on the ground. Capadine came running toward them.

“How bad is it?” asked McGregor.

Capadine glanced toward Hilda.

“He’s breathing.”

Hilda heard the word while old Snake was lifting her down. Uncle Hank was kneeling by that something on the ground.

“Move back a little, boys. Don’t crowd around him that-away,” she heard him say. They opened out, and she caught sight of the still features, the closed eyes, of her father. As she looked, those eyes fluttered open, the head moved.