“Here she is,” answered Dell, recognizing the man and surmising the situation.  “One of your men hurt?”

“Not seriously,” answered Straw, looking back into the wagon.  “Just a little touch of the dengue.  He’s been drinking stagnant water, out of cow tracks, for the last few months, and that gets into the bones of the best of us.  I’m not feeling very well myself.”

Dell lifted the wagon-sheet and peered inside.  “Let’s get the poor fellow into the tent,” urged the boy.  “Can he walk, or can you and I carry him?”

“He’s the long size Texan, and we’d better try and trail him in,” answered Straw, alighting from the wagon.  “Where’s Dr. Joel Wells?”

“Riding the dead-line.  He’ll be in shortly.  I’ll fix a cot, and we’ll bring the sick man in at once.”

It was simple malaria, known in the Southwest as dengue fever.  The unfortunate lad was made comfortable, and on Joel riding in, Straw had skirmished some corn, and was feeding his mules.

“As one of the founders of this hospital,” said Straw, after greeting Joel, “this corn has my approval.  It is my orders, as one of the trustees, that it be kept in stock hereafter.  This team has to go back to the Prairie Dog to-night, and this corn will fortify them for the trip.”

The situation was explained.  “I only lost half a day,” continued Straw, “by bringing the poor fellow over to you.  He’s one of the best men that ever worked for me, and a month’s rest will put him on his feet again.  Now, if one of you boys will take the team back to—­”

“Certainly,” answered Joel.  “Anything a director of this hospital wants done—­We’re running a relief station now—­watering the entire drive this year.  Where’s your outfit camped?”

“A mile above the trail crossing on the Prairie Dog.  The wagon’s empty.  Leave here at two o’clock to-night, and you’ll get there in time for breakfast.”

“I’m your man.  Going to the Prairie Dog at night, in the summer, is a horse that’s easy curried.”

The next evening Joel brought in Straw’s herd.  In the mean time the sick man had been cared for, and the passing wayfarer and his cattle made welcome and sped on their way.  During the lay-over, Straw had lost his place in the overland march, two herds having passed him and crossed the Beaver.

“I’m corporal here to-day,” said Straw to the two foremen, who arrived together in advance.  “On this water, I’m the squatter that’ll rob you right.  You’ll count your cattle to me and pay the bill in advance.  This cool, shaded water in the Beaver is worth three cents a head, and I’ll count you down to a toddling calf and your wagon mules.  Your drafts are refused honor at the Beaver banks—­nothing but the long green passes currency here.  You varmints must show some regrets for taking advantage of a widow woman.  I’ll make you sorry for passing me.”

“How I love to hear old Nat rattle his little song,” said one of the foremen, shaking hands with Dell.  “Remember the night you slept with me?  How’s the black cow I gave you last summer?”