Clanton looked at this device distastefully.  “I’m no squaw.  Whyfor can’t I climb on its back an’ ride?”

“Because you are seeck.  It iss of the importance that you do not exert yourself.  Voyons!  You will be comfortable here.  N’est-ce pas, Polly?” Pierre gesticulated as he explained volubly.  He even illustrated the comfort by lying down in the travois himself and giving a dramatic representation of sleep.

The young man grumbled, but gave way reluctantly.

“How’s Billie Prince?” he asked presently from the cot where he lay.

“He will hafe a fever, but soon he will be well again.  I, Pierre, promise it.  For he iss of a good strength and sound as a dollar.”

Pauline, rifle in hand, scouted ahead of the travois and picked the smoothest way down the rough ravine.  The horse that Roubideau drove was an old and patient one.  Its master held it to a slow, even pace, so that the wounded boy was jolted as little as possible.  When they had reached the entrance to the gorge, travel across the valley became less bumpy.

The young girl walked as if she loved it.  The fine, free swing of the hill woman was in her step.  She breasted the slope with the light grace of a forest faun.  Presently she dropped back to a place beside the conveyance and smiled encouragement at him.

“Pretty bad, is it?”

He grinned back.  “It’s up to me to play the hand I’ve been dealt.”

That he was in a good deal of pain was easy to guess.

“We’re past the worst of it,” Pauline told him, “Up this hill—­down the other side—­and then we’re home.”

The bawling of thirsty cattle and the blatting of calves could be heard now.

“It iss that Monsieur Webb has taken my advice to drive the herd up the canon and into the park for the night,” explained Roubideau.  “There iss one way in, one way out.  Guard the entrances and the ’Paches cannot stampede the cattle.  Voila!”

From the hill-top the leaders of the herd could be seen drinking at the creek.  Cattle behind were pushing forward to get at the water, while the riders on the point and at the swing were directing the movement of the beeves, now checking the steady pressure from the rear and now hastening the pace of those dawdling in the stream.  To add to the confusion cows were mooing loudly for their off-spring not yet unloaded from the calf wagon.

Near the summit Jean with the buckboard met the party from the canon.  He helped Clanton to the seat and drove to the house.

Webb cantered up.  “What’s this I hear about you, Jimmie-Go-Get-’Em?  They tell me you’ve made four good Injuns to-day, shot up a renegade, rescued this young lady here, ‘most rode one of my horses to death, an’ got stove up in the foot yore own self.  It certainly must have been yore busy afternoon.”

The drover looked at him with a new respect.  He had found the answer to the question he had put himself a few hours earlier.  This boy was no four-flusher.  He not only knew how and when to shoot, was game as a bulldog, and keen as a weasel; he possessed, too, that sixth sense so necessary to a gun-fighter, the instinct which shows him how to take advantage of every factor in the situation so as to come through safely.