“Bland!  Henry Bland!” exclaimed Sergeant Wing, leaping to his feet in uncontrollable excitement.  “Do you mean it, sir?  Had he enlisted?  Do you mean that he was the man Miss Harvey spoke of,—­the disguised soldier she called him?”

And Drummond, amazed at Wing’s emotion, gazed up to see the sergeant’s features working almost convulsively, his face paling, his eyes full of intense anxiety.

“Why, I cannot doubt it, sergeant.  He ran away from us on the discovery of Donovan’s body and rode straight for Moreno’s, beating us there probably by an hour or so, for no one happened to miss him.”

Wing’s hands were raised on high in a gesture almost tragic, then dropped helplessly by his side.  With a stifled groan the tall soldier turned abruptly away and went striding towards the opening of the canon, leaving Drummond wondering and perplexed.

When, quarter of an hour later, the sergeant returned, bringing with him some improvised splints and bandages, and Drummond believed it his duty to make inquiry as to whether he knew Bland and what was the cause of his excitement, Wing turned his grave, troubled face and looked his young superior straight in the eye.

“Mr. Drummond, I have known that man for good and for ill many a long year.  If our fellows have killed him, let his crimes die with him.  If he is brought in alive,—­brought to trial,—­I may have to speak, but not now, sir.  Bear with me, lieutenant,—­not now.”

Was Drummond dreaming?  He could have declared that tears were starting in the sergeant’s eyes as he turned hastily away, unable for the moment to continue the setting and bandaging of the broken arm.

“Take your own time, Wing,” said the young officer, gently.  “Speak or keep silent as you will.  You have earned the right.”  And the sergeant mutely thanked him.

The primitive surgery of the frontier took little time, and, with his arm comfortably and closely slung, Drummond lay impatient for the coming of his men, impatient perhaps to hear a softer voice, to feel again the light touch of slender fingers, yet in his weakness and exhaustion dropping slowly off to sleep.  All efforts to keep awake proved vain.  His heavy eyelids closed, and presently he was in dreamland.

Meantime Sergeant Wing had busied himself in many a way.  First he had gone to loosen old Moreno’s bonds,—­enough, at least, to relieve his pain yet hold him securely.  The soldier sitting drowsily on the rock beside the prisoner gladly accepted permission to put aside his carbine and go to sleep.

“I’ll watch him, Mat,” said Wing.  “You lie down there, Moreno, and see to it that you make no effort to slip a knot while I’m at work here.  How far away is that ambulance now, Patterson?” he called to the man on lookout.

“Halted down at the edge of the plain, sergeant.  That’s where they struck water first, and I reckon they couldn’t make up their minds to come farther.  I can make out one or two of the fellows coming back far down the desert to the south.  Horses played out probably.”