And he tried vainly to grin up into Jolly Roger’s face as he became a lifeless weight in the other’s arms.

Jolly Roger was sobbing.  He was sobbing, in a strange, hard man-fashion, as he tore open Cassidy’s shirt and saw the red wound that went clean through Cassidy’s right breast just under the shoulder.  And Peter still heard that strange sound coming from his lips, a moaning as if for breath, as his master ran and brought up water, and worked over the fallen man.  And then he got under Cassidy, and rose up with him on his shoulders, and staggered off with him toward the creek.  There he found a path, a narrow foot trail, and not once did he stop with his burden until he came into a little clearing, out of which Cassidy had seen the smoke rising.  In this clearing was a cabin, and from the cabin came an old man to meet him—­an old man and a girl.

At first something shot up into Peter’s throat, for he thought it was Nada who came behind the grizzled and white-headed man.  There was the same lithe slimness in her body, the same brown glint in her hair, and the same—­but he saw then that it was not Nada.  She was older.  She was a bit taller.  And her face was white when she saw the bleeding burden on Jolly Roger’s back.

“I shot him,” panted McKay.  “God knows I didn’t mean to!  I’m afraid—­”

He did not finish giving voice to the fear that Cassidy was dead—­ or dying, and for a moment he saw only the big staring eyes of the girl as the gray-bearded man helped him with his burden.  Not until the Irishman was on a cot in the cabin did he discover how childishly weak he had become and what a terrific struggle he had made with the weight on his shoulders.  He sank into a chair, while the old trapper worked over Cassidy.

He heard the girl call him grandfather.  She was no longer frightened, and she moved like a swift bird about the cabin, getting water and bandages and pillows, and the sight of fresh blood and of Cassidy’s dead-white face brought a glow of tenderness into her eyes.  McKay, sitting dumbly, saw that her hands were doing twice the work his own could have accomplished, and not until he heard a low moan from the wounded man did he come to her side.

“The bullet went through clean as a whistle,” the old man said.  “Lucky you don’t use soft nosed bullets, friend.”

A deep sigh came from Cassidy’s lips.  His eyelids fluttered, and then slowly his eyes opened.  The girl was bending over him, and Cassidy saw only her face, and the brown sheen of her hair.

“He’ll live?” Jolly Roger said tremulously.

The older man remained mute.  It was Cassidy, turning his head a little, who answered weakly.

“Don’t worry, McKay.  I’ll—­live.”

Jolly Roger bent over the cot, between Cassidy and the girl.  Gently he took one of the wounded man’s hands in both his own.

“I’m sorry, old man,” he whispered.  “You won, fair and square.  And I won’t go far away.  I’ll be waiting for you when you get on your feet.  I promise that.  I’ll wait.”