“Sick?  Worse than sick,” Joe grumbled.  “That money of yours is to blame for it.  It’s a wonder he isn’t dead.”

“My money?  How?” Phillips was both mystified and alarmed.

Jim raised himself in his blankets and said, irritably:  “After this you can run your own pay-car, kid.  I’m through, d’you hear?”

“Speak out.  What’s wrong?”

“Jim was stuck up, that’s what’s wrong.  That’s enough, isn’t it?  They bent a six-gun over his head and grabbed your coin.  He’s got a dent in his crust the size of a saucer!”

Phillips’ face whitened slowly.  “My money!  Robbed!” he gasped.  “Jim!  Who did it?  How could you let them?”

The younger McCaskey fell back weakly; he waved a feeble gesture at his brother.  “Joe’ll tell you.  I’m dizzy; my head ain’t right yet.”

“A stranger stopped him—­asked him something or other—­and another guy flattened him from behind.  That’s all he remembers.  When he came to he found he’d been frisked.  He was still dippy when he got home, so I put him to bed.  He got up and moved around a bit this morning, but he’s wrong in his head.”

Phillips seated himself upon a candle-box.  “Robbed!” he exclaimed, weakly.  “Broke—­again!  Gee!  That was hard money!  It was the first I ever earned!”

Joe McCaskey’s dark face was doubly unpleasant as he frowned down upon the youth.  “Thinking about nothing except your coin, eh?  Why don’t you think about Jim?  He did you a favor and ’most lost his life.”

“Oh, I’m sorry—­of course!” Phillips rose heavily and crossed to the bed.  “I didn’t mean to appear selfish.  I don’t blame you, Jim.  I’ll get a doctor for you, then you must describe the hold-ups.  Give me a hint who they are and I’ll go after them.”

The younger brother rolled his head in negation and mumbled, sullenly:  “I’m all right.  I don’t want a doctor.”

Joe explained for him:  “He never saw the fellows before and he don’t seem to remember much about them.  That’s natural enough.  Your money’s gone clean, kid, and a yelp won’t get you anything.  The crooks are organized and if you set up a holler they’ll get all of us.  They’ll alibi anybody you accuse—­it’s no trick to alibi a pal—­”

“Isn’t it?” The question was uttered unexpectedly; it came from the front of the tent and startled the occupants thereof, who turned to behold a stranger just entering their premises.  He was an elderly man; he possessed a quick, shrewd eye; he had poked the tent flap aside with the barrel of a Colt’s revolver.  Through the door-opening could be seen other faces and the bodies of other men who had likewise stolen up unheard.  During the moment of amazement following his first words these other men crowded in behind him.

“Maybe it ’ll be more of a trick than you figure on.”  The stranger’s gray mustache lifted in a grin that was not at all friendly.

“What the blazes—?” Joe McCaskey exploded.