GUMENT

The fire spluttered just beyond the door of the tent. Its cheerful
light supported the efforts of the kerosene lamp within. Peigan
Charley squatted over its friendly warmth, his lean hands outheld to
its flickering blaze in truly Indian fashion. His position had been
taken up with a view to observing his wounded chief, whose condition
concerned him more than anything else in the world, except it was,
perhaps, his delight in driving the men of his own color under him, and
his absolute contempt for his own race.

John Kars was lying on his blankets, yielding to the skilful attention
of Dr. Bill. His final journey from the gorge to the camp, ten miles
distant, had been perhaps the greatest effort of the night. But with
Charley's help, with the dogged resolve of a spirit that did not
understand defeat, it had been finally achieved.

His wound was by no means serious. He knew that. Charley believed, in
his simple mind, that his boss was practically a dead man. Hence his
watchful regard now. Kars' trouble was little more than loss of blood,
and though his tremendous physique had helped him, his weakness during
the last two miles of the journey had demanded all his resources to
overcome.

The dressing was complete. The last stitches had been put in the
bandages about the wound. Bill closed his instrument case, and
returned the bottles of antiseptic drugs to the miniature chest he
carried. He sat down on the blankets which were spread out for his own
use, and smiled genially down at his patient.

"That's that," he said cheerfully. "But it was a lucky get out for
you, John. Say, a shade to the left, and that Breed would have handed
you a jugular in two parts. Just take it easy. You'll travel
to-morrow, after a night's sleep. Guess you'll be all whole against we
make Fort Mowbray. You best talk now, an' get rid of it all. Maybe
you'll sleep a deal easier after."

"Thanks, Bill."

Kars' regard of his friend said far more than his simple words. But
then the friendship between these two was of a quality which required
little enough of verbal expression. It was the friendship of two men
who have shared infinite perils together, of two men whose lives are
bound up in loyalty to each other.

For some moments the wounded man made no response to the invitation. A
pleasant lassitude was at work upon him. It seemed a pity to disturb
it by the effort of talk. But it was necessary to talk, and he kne