“Not yet.  Wils, give the lass time.”

“Time?  Heavens! it’s three weeks and more.”

“Go ahead an’ read your letters or I’ll knock you on the head with one of these chunks,” ordered Wade, mildly.

The hunter soon had the room warm and cheerful, with steaming breakfast on the red-hot coals.  Presently, when he made ready to serve Moore, he was surprised to find the boy crying over one of the letters.

“Wils, what’s the trouble?” he asked.

“Oh, nothing.  I—­I—­just feel bad, that’s all,” replied Moore.

“Ahuh!  So it seems.  Well, tell me about it?”

“Pard, my father—­has forgiven me.”

“The old son-of-a-gun!  Good!  What for?  You never told me you’d done anythin’.”

“I know—­but I did—­do a lot.  I was sixteen then.  We quarreled.  And I ran off up here to punch cows.  But after a while I wrote home to mother and my sister.  Since then they’ve tried to coax me to come home.  This letter’s from the old man himself.  Gee!...  Well, he says he’s had to knuckle.  That he’s ready to forgive me.  But I must come home and take charge of his ranch.  Isn’t that great?...  Only I can’t go.  And I couldn’t—­I couldn’t ever ride a horse again—­if I did go.”

“Who says you couldn’t?” queried Wade.  “I never said so.  I only said you’d never be a bronco-bustin’ cowboy again.  Well, suppose you’re not?  You’ll be able to ride a little, if I can save that leg....  Boy, your letter is damn good news.  I’m sure glad.  That will make Collie happy.”

The cowboy had a better appetite that morning, which fact mitigated somewhat the burden of Wade’s worry.  There was burden enough, however, and Wade had set this day to make important decisions about Moore’s injured foot.  He had dreaded to remove the last dressing because conditions at that time had been unimproved.  He had done all he could to ward off the threatened gangrene.

“Wils, I’m goin’ to look at your foot an’ tell you things,” declared Wade, when the dreaded time could be put off no longer.

“Go ahead....  And, pard, if you say my leg has to be cut off—­why just pass me my gun!”

The cowboy’s voice was gay and bantering, but his eyes were alight with a spirit that frightened the hunter.

“Ahuh!...  I know how you feel.  But, boy, I’d rather live with one leg an’ be loved by Collie Belllounds than have nine legs for some other lass.”

Wilson Moore groaned his helplessness.

“Damn you, Bent Wade!  You always say what kills me!...  Of course I would!”

“Well, lie quiet now, an’ let me look at this poor, messed-up foot.”

Wade’s deft fingers did not work with the usual precision and speed natural to them.  But at last Moore’s injured member lay bare, discolored and misshapen.  The first glance made the hunter quicker in his movements, closer in his scrutiny.  Then he yelled his joy.

“Boy, it’s better!  No sign of gangrene!  We’ll save your leg!”