He came on steadily, bearing his burden lightly.  Still holding the lantern for him, turning as he came closer, she saw that the cave was lofty and wide, that it ran farther back into the mountain than her lantern’s rays could follow.

“Back there,” said Norton, “you’ll find blankets.  I’ll hold him while you spread some out for him.”

She hurried toward the farther end of the cave, came to a tumble of blankets against the wall, dragged out two or three, spreading them quickly.  And then, while Norton was stooping to lay Brocky’s limp form down, she busied herself with her case.

“He has fainted,” she said quickly.  “I’d like to examine the wound before he is conscious; it’s going to hurt him.  Pour me some water into any sort of basin or cup or anything else you’ve got here.  Then stand by to help me if I need you. . . .  Hold the lantern for me.”

Swiftly, but Norton marked with what skilful fingers, she removed the bandage and made her examination.  Norton, squatting upon his heels at her side, holding the lantern, after one frowning look at the wound, kept his eyes fixed upon her face.  Brocky Lane was near his death and the sheriff knew it after that one look; his life lay, perhaps, in the hands of this girl.  Norton had brought her when he might have brought Patten.  Had he chosen wrongly?

He had noted her hands before; now they seemed to him the most wonderful hands ever possessed by either man or woman, strong, sure, quick, sensitive, utterly capable.  He thought of Caleb Patten’s hands, thick, a little inclined to be flabby.

“Open that bottle,” she directed coolly.  “One tablet into the water.  That box has cotton and gauze in it . . . don’t touch them!  I want everything clean; just open the box and set it where I can get it.”

One by one she gave her directions and the man obeyed swiftly and unquestioningly.  He watched her probe the wound, saw her eyes narrow, knew that she had made her diagnosis.  As she washed the ugly hole in the flesh and made her own bandage Brocky Lane was wincing, his eyes again open.  Both men were watching her now, the same look in each eager pair of eyes.  But until she had done and, with Norton’s help, had made Lane as comfortable as possible upon his crude bed, she gave no answer to their mute pleading.  Then she sat down upon the stone floor, caught her knees up in her clasped hands, and looked long and searchingly into Brocky Lane’s face.  The cowboy struggled with his muscles and triumphed over them, summoning a sick grin as he muttered: 

“You’re mighty good to take all this trouble. . . .  I’m sure a hundred times obliged. . . .”

“And,” she cut in abruptly, “you mean to tell me that you shot that man after he had put this hole in you?  And then you made him crawl out of the brush and come to you?”

“I sure did,” grunted Brocky.  “And if my aim hadn’t been sort of bad, me being all upset this way, I wouldn’t have just winged old Moraga that way, either!  When he’s all cured up and I’m all well again. . . .”