m over
the wound, her lips twisted in a low cry of pity as she did so. To her
tender gaze, the hurt seemed a frightful one. Dreading lest he should
regain consciousness and find himself alone, she decided to remain with
him, instead of going for the help she craved; most likely she would be
unable to find her mother and Barker, anyway. She stopped the flow of
blood as best she could and put a pillow under the ranchman's head,
kissing him afterward. Then for an interval she sat still. She never
knew for how long.

Santry reached the house just as Mrs. Purnell and Barker returned with
their berries, and the three found the girl bathing the wounded man's
face, and crying over him.

"Boy, boy!" Santry sobbed, dropping on his knees before the unconscious
figure. "Who done this to you?"

Dorothy weepingly explained, and when she told of her own part in
shooting Moran the old fellow patted her approvingly on the back. "Good
girl," he said hoarsely. "But I wish that job had been left for me."

"Merciful Heavens!" cried Mrs. Purnell. "I shall never get over this."
With trembling hands she took the basin and towel from her daughter and
set them one side, then she gently urged the girl to her feet.

"You!" said Santry, so ferociously to Barker that the man winced in
spite of himself. "Help me to lay him on the bed, so's to do it
gentle-like."

Dorothy, who felt certain that Wade was mortally hurt, struggled
desperately against the feeling of faintness which was creeping over
her. She caught at a chair for support, and her mother caught her in her
arms.

"My poor dear, you're worn out. Go lie down. Oh, when I think...!"

"Don't talk to me, mother!" Dorothy waved her back, for the presence
close to her of another person could only mean her collapse. "I'm all
right. I'm of no consequence now. He needs a doctor," she added, turning
to Santry, who stood near the bed bowed with grief. He, too, thought
that Wade would never be himself again.

"I'll go," said Barker, eager to do something to atone for his absence
at the critical moment, but Santry rounded upon him in a rage.

"You--you skunk!" he snarled, and gestured fiercely toward the bed. "He
left you here to look after things and you--you went _berry pickin'_!"
Barker seemed so crushed by the scorn in the old man's words that
Dorothy's sympathy was stirred.

"It wasn't Barker's fault," she said quickly. "There seemed to be no
danger. Gordon said so himself. But one of y