Fay, with a slight shrug of contempt at such womanish weakness, ran to his assistance.  He straightened the Easterner out and placed his folded coat under his head.  “He’ll come around in a minute,” he muttered.  He glanced toward the gulch and then back to the shaft.  “Can’t leave that lay-out,” he went on.  He bent over the prostrate figure and began to loosen the band of his shirt.  Something about the boy’s clothing attracted his attention, so, drawing his knife, he deftly and gently ripped away the coat and shirt.  Then he arose softly to his feet and bared his head.

“I apologize to you,” said he, addressing the recumbent form; “you are game.”

In the fleshy part of the naked shoulder was a small round hole, clotted and smeared with blood.

Jim Fay stooped and examined the wound closely.  The bullet had entered near the point of the shoulder, but a little below, so that it had merely cut a secant through the curve of the muscle.  If it had struck a quarter of an inch to the left it would have gouged a furrow; a quarter of an inch beyond that would have caused it to miss entirely.  Fay saw that the hurt itself was slight, and that the Easterner had fainted more because of loss of blood than from the shock.  This determined to his satisfaction, he moved quickly to the mouth of the shaft.  “Way below!” he cried in a sharp voice, and discharged his revolver twice down the opening.  Then he stole noiselessly away, and ran at speed to the kitchen of the shack, whence he immediately returned with a pail of water and a number of towels.  He set these down, and again peered down the shaft.  “Way below!” he repeated, and dropped down a sizable chunk of ore.  Apparently satisfied that the prisoners were well warned, he gave his whole attention to his patient.

He washed the wound carefully.  Then he made a compress of one of the towels, and bound it with the other two.  Looking up, he discovered Bennington watching him intently.

“It’s all right!” he assured the latter in answer to the question in his eyes.  “Nothing but a scratch.  Lie still a minute till I get this fastened, and you can sit up and watch the rat hole while I get you some clothes.”

In another moment or so the young man was propped up against an empty ore “bucket,” his shoulder bound, and his hand slung comfortably in a sling from his neck.

“There you are,” said Jim cheerily.  “Now you take my six-shooter and watch that aggregation till I get back.  They won’t come out any, but you may as well be sure.”

He handed Bennington his revolver, and moved off in the direction of the cabin, whistling cheerfully.  The young man looked after him thoughtfully.  Nothing could have been more considerate than the Westerner’s manner, nothing could have been kinder than his prompt action—­Bennington saw that his pony, now cropping the brush near at hand, was black with sweat—­nothing could have been more straightforward than his assistance in the matter of the claims.  And yet Bennington de Laney was not satisfied.  He felt he owed the sudden change of front to a word spoken in his behalf by the girl.  This was a strange influence she possessed, thus to alter a man’s attitude entirely by the mere voicing of a wish.