The fallen raider sat up, mumbling to his saints in one breath, cursing in his next.  The other Mexican kept his stand, intimidated by the threatening rifle.

“Go, Greasers!  Run!” yelled Gale.  Then he yelled it in Spanish.  At the point of his rifle he drove the two raiders out of the camp.  His next move was to run into the house and fetch out the carbines.  With a heavy stone he dismantled each weapon.  That done, he set out on a run for his horse.  He took the shortest cut down the arroyo, with no concern as to whether or not he would encounter the raiders.  Probably such a meeting would be all the worse for them, and they knew it.  Blanco Sol heard him coming and whistled a welcome, and when Gale ran up the horse was snorting war.  Mounting, Gale rode rapidly back to the scene of the action, and his first thought, when he arrived at the well, was to give Sol a drink and to fill his canteens.

Then Gale led his horse up out of the waterhole, and decided before remounting to have a look at the Indians.  The Papago had been shot through the heart, but the Yaqui was still alive.  Moreover, he was conscious and staring up at Gale with great, strange, somber eyes, black as volcanic slag.

“Gringo good—­no kill,” he said, in husky whisper.

His speech was not affirmative so much as questioning.

“Yaqui, you’re done for,” said Gale, and his words were positive.  He was simply speaking aloud his mind.

“Yaqui—­no hurt—­much,” replied the Indian, and then he spoke a strange word—­repeated it again and again.

An instinct of Gale’s, or perhaps some suggestion in the husky, thick whisper or dark face, told Gale to reach for his canteen.  He lifted the Indian and gave him a drink, and if ever in all his life he saw gratitude in human eyes he saw it then.  Then he examined the injured Yaqui, not forgetting for an instant to send wary, fugitive glances on all sides.  Gale was not surprised.  The Indian had three wounds—­a bullet hole in his shoulder, a crushed arm, and a badly lacerated leg.  What had been the matter with him before being set upon by the raider Gale could not be certain.

The ranger thought rapidly.  This Yaqui would live unless left there to die or be murdered by the Mexicans when they found courage to sneak back to the well.  It never occurred to Gale to abandon the poor fellow.  That was where his old training, the higher order of human feeling, made impossible the following of any elemental instinct of self-preservation.  All the same, Gale knew he multiplied his perils a hundredfold by burdening himself with a crippled Indian.  Swiftly he set to work, and with rifle ever under his hand, and shifting glance spared from his task, he bound up the Yaqui’s wounds.  At the same time he kept keen watch.

The Indians’ burros and the horses of the raiders were all out of sight.  Time was too valuable for Gale to use any in what might be a vain search.  Therefore, he lifted the Yaqui upon Sol’s broad shoulders and climbed into the saddle.  At a word Sol dropped his head and started eastward up the trail, walking swiftly, without resentment for his double burden.