, cut off
from sight by the height of the rising ground intervening on the
hither side.

A moment later a distinct movement amongst the watchers, which had
something almost of relief in it, told that this had happened. Minky
turned to Jim Wright, who chanced to be nearest him.

"It's Sid," he declared definitely.

The old man nodded.

"An' I guess Van's right," he agreed.

"He'll be along up in a minute," said Joe Brand.

Minky remained where he was watching the point at which he expected to
see the horseman reappear. This sudden apparition had fastened itself
upon his general apprehension and become part of it. What was the news
the man was bringing?

Some of the men moved off the veranda to meet the horseman when he
came up, but the majority remained where they were. In spite of their
interest, these people were rarely carried away by their feelings in a
matter of this sort. Time would tell them all they wanted to know.
Perhaps a good deal more than they cared to hear. So they preferred to
wait.

Their patience was quickly rewarded. In less than five minutes a
bobbing head rose above the brow of the incline. Then came the man. He
was still leaning forward to ease his panting horse, whose dilated
nostrils and flattened ears told the onlookers of its desperate
journey. The leg-weary beast floundered up the steep under quirt and
spur--and, in a moment, stood tottering, gasping and steaming before
the eager crowd.

Sid Morton almost fell out of the saddle. And as his feet came to the
ground he reeled. But Minky caught him, and he steadied himself.

"I'm beat," the horseman cried desperately. "For mercy's sake hand me
a horn o' whisky."

He flung himself down on the edge of the veranda, leaving his jaded
beast to anyone's care. He was too far spent to think of anything or
anybody but himself. Falling back against the post he closed his eyes
while the silent crowd looked on stupidly.

Minky seemed to be the only one who fully grasped the situation. He
passed the foundered horse on to his "choreman," and then himself
procured a stiff drink of rye whisky for the exhausted man. This he
administered without a moment's delay, and the ranchman opened his
eyes.

The next instant he sat up, and, in doing so, disclosed a large
dark-red patch on the post he had leaned against. Minky saw the
ominous stain.

"Wounded?" he inquired sharply.

"Some." Then he added, after a moment's hesitation, "Yes, guess I'm
done.