“He’d get well if he could have proper attention, but a wounded man can’t stand to be jolted around the way he’s been since he was shot.”

“Do you mean that you think he’s going to die?”

“I don’t know.”  After a moment he added:  “He’s mighty sick.”

“He ought never to have left town.”

“Oughtn’t he?” said Prince dryly.  “If you’ll inquire you’ll find we had a good reason for leavin’.”

“Well, you’re going to have another good reason for going back,” she told him crisply.  “I’ll send a buckboard for him.”

“Aren’t you takin’ a heap of trouble on our account?” he inquired ironically.

“That’s my business.”

“And mine.  Are you the sheriff of Washington County, ma’am?”

A pulse of anger beat in her throat.  Her long-lashed eyes flashed imperiously at him.  “It doesn’t matter who I am.  You’ll march to town in front of my horse.”

“Maybe so.”

The voice of the sick man began to babble querulously.  Both of those outside listened.

“He’s awake,” the girl said.  “Bring him out here and let me see him.”

Billie had an instinct that sometimes served him well.  He rose promptly.

“Para sirvir usted” ("At your service"), he murmured.

“Don’t try to start anything.  I’ll have you covered every second.”

“I believe you.  It won’t be necessary to demonstrate, ma’am.”

The cowpuncher carried his friend out from the cave and put him down gently in the sand.

“Why, he’s only a boy!” she cried in surprise.

“He was man enough to go up against half a dozen ’Paches alone to save Pauline Roubideau,” Billie said simply.

She looked up with quick interest.  “I’ve heard that story.  Is it true?”

“It’s true.  And he was man enough to fight it out to a finish against two bad men yesterday.”

“But he can’t be more than eighteen.”  She watched for a moment the flush of fever in his soft cheeks.  “Did he really kill Dave and Hugh Roush?  Or was it you?”

“He did it.”

“I hate a killer!” she blazed unexpectedly.

“Does he look like a killer?” asked Prince gently.

“No, he doesn’t.  That makes it worse.”

“Did you know that Dave Roush ruined his sister’s life in a fiendish way?”

“I expect there’s another side to that story,” she retorted.

“This boy was fourteen at the time.  His father swore him to vengeance an’ Jim followed his enemies for years.  He never had a doubt but that he was doin’ right.”

She put her rifle down impulsively.  “Why don’t you keep his face sponged? 
Bring me water.”

The Texan put his hat into requisition again for a bucket.  With her handkerchief the girl sponged the face and the hands.  The cold water stopped for a moment the delirious muttering of the young man.  But the big eyes that stared into hers did not associate his nurse with the present.