turned off to follow Tom Lorrigan.

While he worked Lance listened stoically. When he was ready to start
he led Sorry close, lifted the fellow as tenderly as he could, saw him
faint again with the pain, and somehow got him on the horse while he
was still unconscious. Burt Brownlee was a big man, but he was not of
great weight. Lance bound him to the saddle with his own riata,
revived him with a little more whisky, and started for Conley's, who
lived nearest.

It was ten miles to Conleys, as riders guessed the distance. Lance
walked and led Sorry, and tried to hold Burt Brownlee in the saddle,
and listened to his rambling talk, and gave him more whisky when he
seemed ready to die. During certain intervals when Burt seemed lucid
enough to realize his desperate condition, Lance heartened him with
assurance that they were almost there.

On the way into the canyon Burt Brownlee suffered greatly on the steep
trail, down which the horse must go with forward joltings that racked
terribly the man's crushed side. The whisky was gone; he had finished
the scanty supply at the canyon's crest, because he begged for it so
hard that Lance could not steel himself to refuse. At the bottom Lance
stopped Sorry, and put an arm around Burt. Lance's face was set
masklike in its forced calm, but his voice was very tender, with the
deep, vibrant note Mary Hope loved so ardently.

"Lean against me, old man, and rest a minute. It's pretty tough going,
but you're game. You're dead game. You'll make it. Wait. I'll stand on
this rock--now lean hard, and rest. Ho, there's no whisky--water will
have to do you, now. I've a little in my canteen, and when you've
rested--"

"I'm going," said Burt, lurching against Lance's steady strength.
"You're a white man. That Lorrigan dope--don't forget what I told
you--turn it in--"

Lance's mouth twisted with sudden bitterness. "I won't--forget," he
said. "I'll turn it--in."

"I'm--a goner. Just--stand and let me--lean--"

Lance stood, and let him lean, and with his handkerchief he very
gently dried Burt's cold, perspiring face. It seemed an endless time
that he stood there. Now and then Burt clutched him with fingers that
gripped his shoulders painfully, but Lance never moved. Once, when
Sorry turned his head and looked back inquiringly, wondering why they
did not go on, Lance spoke to the horse and his voice was calm and
soothing. But when it was all over, Lance's underlip was bleeding at
the corner