head, back of the ear. The dog
dropped like a length of chain. Plimsoll kicked the body viciously,
taking the bandanna from his neck and tying it tight about his wrist,
fastening the knots with his teeth. With a look at Molly, crumpled
unconscious in the corner, he sought for more liquor, found it and
poured himself a big jorum, gulping it down while the blood dripped
heavily from the bandage. He was soggy with shock and fatigue, the
strong stuff half paralyzed his faculties and he dropped into a chair,
gazing stupidly at his wrist.

His imagination was a curse to him. He had seen Grit's slavering jaws as
they rose in the leap, the crimson glare in his eyes. To all intents the
dog was mad. It had been lying wounded in the sun. Only madness could
have given it strength to track so far. What if it meant
lockjaw--hydrophobia? Through his dulled brain ran like a black thread
the impression that he could feel the virus stealing through his veins,
stiffening his body. How long did the damned thing take. And the
horrible ending! He had seen a man die of it once, bitten by a mad
collie, the same breed as the brute under the table. He had done for
him, anyway.

Water--that was the test! There was water that Cookie had brought in for
coffee, half a bucket, by the stove. He felt a sudden repugnance toward
it. The slashed veins in his wrists burned and throbbed as if they were
oozing molten lead instead of blood. And he was growing weak. If he
didn't get a tourniquet fixed he might bleed to death. But what was the
use?

Grit, who had opened a way out for Molly, lay still beneath the table.
Molly, overtaxed, was in a swoon. Plimsoll sat in a stupor. The door
swung wide. Cookie rushed in, his face muddy with alarm.

"The show's gone wrong," he cried to Plimsoll, who stared at him
half-comprehending. "For Gawd's sake what's happened here? Gimme a
drink." He snatched at the bottle and swallowed from the neck. "Here,
you need a swig. We got to git out of here, pronto. Have you scragged
the gel?" He thrust the bottle at Plimsoll who drank, senses rallying
by the urge of danger that emanated from the cook like the sweaty stench
of a frightened animal.

"Brandon's gang has come back," said Cookie. "It's the damndest streak
of luck. They must have fell in with Wyatt or some of his pals. They
must have been to the ranch. They cut off the boys and the horses over
by Sand Crick! Reynolds got clear. He saw them comin' an' streaked it.
T