“Freckles, Freckles,” said McLean’s voice.

Freckles snatched down his sleeve and arose to his feet.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said.  “You’ll surely be belavin’ I thought meself alone.”

McLean pushed him carefully to the seat, and bending over him, opened a pocket-case that he carried as regularly as his revolver and watch, for cuts and bruises were of daily occurrence among the gang.

Taking the hurt arm, he turned back the sleeve and bathed and bound the wounds.  He examined Freckles’ head and body and convinced himself that there was no permanent injury, although the cruelty of the punishment the boy had borne set the Boss shuddering.  Then he closed the case, shoved it into his pocket, and sat beside Freckles.  All the indescribable beauty of the place was strong around him, but he saw only the bruised face of the suffering boy, who had hedged for the information he wanted as a diplomat, argued as a judge, fought as a sheik, and triumphed as a devil.

When the pain lessened and breath relieved Freckles’ pounding heart, he watched the Boss covertly.  How had McLean gotten there and how long had he been there?  Freckles did not dare ask.  At last he arose, and going to the case, took out his revolver and the wire-mending apparatus and locked the door.  Then he turned to McLean.

“Have you any orders, sir?” he asked.

“Yes,” said McLean, “I have, and you are to follow them to the letter.  Turn over that apparatus to me and go straight home.  Soak yourself in the hottest bath your skin will bear and go to bed at once.  Now hurry.”

“Mr. McLean,” said Freckles, “it’s sorry I am to be telling you, but the afternoon’s walking of the line ain’t done.  You see, I was just for getting to me feet to start, and I was on time, when up came a gintleman, and we got into a little heated argument.  It’s either settled, or it’s just begun, but between us, I’m that late I haven’t started for the afternoon yet.  I must be going at once, for there’s a tree I must find before the day’s over.”

“You plucky little idiot,” growled McLean.  “You can’t walk the line!  I doubt if you can reach Duncan’s.  Don’t you know when you are done up?  You go to bed; I’ll finish your work.”

“Niver!” protested Freckles.  “I was just a little done up for the prisint, a minute ago.  I’m all right now.  Riding-boots are far too low.  The day’s hot and the walk a good seven miles, sir.  Niver!”

As he reached for the outfit he pitched forward and his eyes closed.  McLean stretched him on the moss and applied restoratives.  When Freckles returned to consciousness, McLean ran to the cabin to tell Mrs. Duncan to have a hot bath ready, and to bring Nellie.  That worthy woman promptly filled the wash-boiler, starting a roaring fire under it.  She pushed the horse-trough from its base and rolled it to the kitchen.