put away the coin and hauled out the dog's body into the moonlight. It
was limber and still warm. Sandy rose from his squat and swiftly
examined the cabin. He discovered a lantern with oil in it, which he
lit. The condition of the fire, corroborating other signs, told him that
the fighting was long over with, the issue passed on. He had no fear of
interruption. Before very long Sam and the Three Star riders would be
along. The sight of Blaze suggested that Molly was not far away. If she
had gone, by force, or her own free will, the probability was that her
own mount and saddle would have been requisitioned.

Sandy's capacity for reading sign was almost without limit. He was
better at it than an Indian because he had equally good observation and
better judgment. But, to find Molly, with the ground about the cabin cut
by arriving and departing feet and hooves, with Blaze in the corral,
was a miracle that called for more than eyesight and deduction. If he
could revive Grit...?

He found water warm in a kettle; he had the first-aid kit with its
bandages, iodine, lint. And, above all, he had Keith's silver flask,
half full. He did not fail to note the empty bottles on the table, the
blood marks where Plimsoll's veins had sprinkled and Grit had stained
the floor. He found, too, a button of horn with a fragment of black and
white check, torn from Molly's riding coat in the struggle. Sandy's
anger crystallized into one ambition beyond the finding of Molly, and
that was to kill Plimsoll, if possible with his hands. He pictured the
struggle between the gambler and the girl, desperate on one side, brutal
on the other and, whether the stake had been won or lost, he resolved
that Plimsoll should die for that attack.

Now his hope hung on Grit. He squatted on the floor by the lantern, a
gun handy in case of need. He took the collie's head on his lap and
examined the blow made by the butt of Plimsoll's gun. It had laid bare
the bone but he did not think it either splintered or fractured. Grit's
tongue lolled out from between his teeth and his muzzle was dry, yet
Sandy fancied breath still passed the nostrils and that there was a
faint beat of heart beneath the heavy draggled coat, matted with the
blood that had drained life from him. Sandy knew that dog or wolf or
coyote will lie in a torpor after being badly wounded and often recover
slowly, waking from the recuperating sleep revitalized. But, if he
could bring Grit back, he must m