dly wounded,
for he made practically no progress. For a few minutes he would lie
still, then try once more to crawl forward.

The popping of guns had shifted farther to the right. Bob judged that the
rangers and soldiers were engaged with the Indians somewhere on the
ridge. Only a few desultory shots came from the camp. But he knew it
would be only a question of time till some Ute caught sight of the
wounded man and picked him off as he lay helpless in the open.

Bob did not know who the wounded man was. He might be Dud Hollister or
Tom Reeves. Or perhaps Blister Haines. Young Dillon sweated in agony. His
throat was parched. He felt horribly sick and weak, was still shaking in
a palsy of fear.

It was every man for himself now, he reasoned in his terror. Perhaps he
could creep through the willows and escape up the river without being
seen. He began to edge slowly back.

But that man crouched in the sunshine, tied by his wound to a spot where
the Utes would certainly find him sooner or later, fascinated Bob's eyes
and thoughts. Suppose he left him there--and found out too late that he
had deserted Dud, abandoning him to almost certain death. He could not do
that. It would not be human. What Dud would do in his place was not open
to question. He would go out and get the man and drag him to the willows.
But the danger of this appalled the cowpuncher. The Utes would get him
sure if he did. Even if they did not hit him, he would be seen and later
stalked by the redskins.

After all there was no sense in throwing away another life. Probably the
wounded man would die anyhow. Every fellow had to think of himself at a
time like this. It was not his fault the ranger was cut off and helpless.
He was no more responsible for him than were any of the rest of the
boys.

But it would not do. Bob could not by any sophistry escape the duty
thrust on him. The other boys were not here. He was.

He groaned in desperation of spirit. He had to go and get the ranger who
had been shot. That was all there was to it. If he did not, he would be a
yellow coyote.

Out of the precarious safety of the willows he crept on hands and knees,
still shaking in an ague of trepidation. Of such cover as there was he
availed himself. From one sagebush to another he ran, head and body
crouched low. His last halt was back of some greasewood a dozen yards
from the ranger.

"I'll get you into the willows if I can," he called in a sibilant
whisper. "You