“Oh, Dad,” the girl wailed, “if he dies—­if he dies——­”

The eyes of Perris, where he lay on the flagging, opened wearily.

“I’ll live—­I can’t die!  But Alcatraz ... keep him from butcher Hervey ... keep him safe....”

Then his gaze fixed on the face of Oliver Jordan and his eyes widened in amazement.

“My father,” she said, as she cut away the shirt to get at the wound.

“Him!” muttered Perris.

“Partner,” said Oliver Jordan, wavering above the wounded man on his crutches, “what’s done is done.”

“Ay,” said Perris, smiling weakly, “if you’re her father that trail is sure ended.  Marianne—­get hold of my hand—­I’m going out again ... keep Alcatraz safe....”

His eyes closed in a faint.

Between the cook and Marianne they managed to carry the limp figure to the shelter of the arcade just as Hervey and his men thundered up to the closed gate of the patio, and there the foreman drew rein in a cloud of dust and cursed his surprise at the sight of the ranchman.

The group in the patio, and the shining form of Alcatraz, were self explanatory.  His plans were ruined at the very verge of a triumph.  He hardly needed to hear the voice of Jordan saying:  “I asked you to get rid of a gun-fighting killer—­and you’ve tried to murder a man.  Hervey, get out of the Valley and stay out if you’re fond of a whole skin!”

And Hervey went.

* * * * *

There followed a strange time for Alcatraz.  He could not be led from the patio.  They could only take him by tying every hoof and dragging him, and such force Marianne would not let the cowpunchers use.  So day after day he roamed in that strange corral while men came and stared at him through the strong bars of the gate, but no one dared enter the enclosure with the wild horse saving the girl alone, and even she could not touch him.

It was all very strange.  And strangest of all was when the girl came out of the door through which the master had been carried and looked at Alcatraz, and wept.  Every evening she came but she had no way of answering the anxious whinny with which he called for Red Jim again.

Strange, too, was the hush which brooded over the house.  Even the cowpunchers, when they came to the gate, talked softly.  But still the master did not come.  Two weeks dragged on, weary weeks of waiting, and then the door to the house opened and again they carried him out on a wicker couch, a pale and wasted figure, around whom the man on the crutches and the girl and half a dozen cowpunchers gathered laughing and talking all at once.

“Stand back from him, now,” ordered Marianne, “and watch Alcatraz.”

So they drew away under the arcade and Alcatraz heard the voice of the master calling weakly.