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“That you, Pearsall?” came the whisper. “Get me home.”

The ranch boss bent closer.

“Are you sufferin’, Charley?” he asked.

“No,” was the dubious response. “No, I’m not in pain.”

“God!” groaned Snake under his breath; and McGregor dropped his head. Hilda wondered that they should be so dismayed. Surely it was good that father was not in pain.

Uncle Hank got to his feet. The eyes that had gazed so fearfully at Charley went keenly round the circle of faces. If he saw Hilda, he made no sign; but there was a sharp scrutiny for the horse that looked over each man’s shoulder.

“Jeff—Buster—” he muttered under his breath, with a wavering return of his glance to the injured man’s face—“No. Mex, is that pony of yours fresh?”

“Yes, sir.” The slim, wiry cowpuncher put an eager hand up on his blue roan’s mane. “He’ll do whatever you ask of him.”

Charley’s eyes had closed again. Hilda wanted very much to creep in closer to him, but dared not. Uncle Hank was doing everything.

“Pull straight for Mesquite,” she heard him say to Mex. “Stop at the Lazy F for a fresh pony if that one gives out. You can get another at the Circle 99 company’s, if you need it. If Doc. Elder ain’t in Mesquite, nor anywhere in riding distance, and if anything’s the matter that you can’t get him, go on to El Centro for McClosky. Don’t come back without a doctor. Have you got money?”