t at the very bottom of the _arroyo_ and
lay gasping on his side. Jack took hold of Prather's wrists to draw his
hands away from the wound.

"My God! Out here, like a rat in a trap!" Prather groaned. "When I have
all life before me! In sight of millions and power--a rat in a trap out
on this damnable desert, as if I were of no more account than a rancher!"

"Let me see!" said Jack; for Prather was holding his hands tight against
his face, as if he feared that all the blood in his body would pour out
if he removed them. "Let me see! Maybe it is not so bad!"

Prather let his hands drop and the right one which was over the cheek
with the mole was splashed red between the fingers. On the cheek was a
raw spot, from which ran a slight trickle. The mole had gone. A splinter
of rock, or perhaps a bullet, with its jacket split, ricocheting
sidewise, had torn it clean from the flesh.

"Not at all dangerous!" said Jack.

"No?" exclaimed Prather, in utter relief.

"It will heal in a fortnight!"

A small medicine case was among the regular supplies that were always
packed on that omnibus of a burro, Jag Ear. While Jack was bandaging the
wound, Firio, who kept watch, had no news to report.

"Nothing matters! They will get us, anyway!" Prather moaned. The shock of
being hit had quite finished any pretence at concealing his mortal fear
of the outcome.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that! We already have them down to seven!" said Jack
encouragingly, as he made a pillow of a blanket and bade Prather rest
his head on it.

But he knew well that they were a seven who had learned wisdom from the
fate of their comrades. From Nogales, Leddy must have heard of the loss
of two horses. At best, but one of the beleaguered three had any means of
escape. Leddy could well afford to curb his impatience as he camped
comfortably by the water-hole, while his own horses grazed.

The sun was still above the western ridge in the effulgence of its adieu
for the day. Jack was on his knee, with the broad, level glare full on
him, looking at Prather, who was in the shadow; and his reflections were
mixed with that pity which one feels toward another who is lame or blind
or suffers for the want of any sense or faculty that is born to the
average human being. For a man of true courage rarely sees a coward as
anything but a man ailing; he is grateful for nature's kindness to
himself. And the spark of John Wingfield, Knight, skipping generations
before it settled