e and he staggered with his burden into the protecting
darkness of the night.

The snow crept about his ankles, seeming to freeze them at every touch,
but Fairchild did not desist. His original purpose must be carried out
if Rodaine were not to know,--the appearance that Harry had aroused
himself sufficiently to wrap the blankets about him and wander off by
himself. And this could be accomplished only by the pain and cold and
torture of a barefoot trip.

Some way, by shifting the big frame of his unconscious partner now and
then, Fairchild made the trip to the main road and veered toward the
pumphouse of the Diamond J. mine, running as it often did without
attendance while the engineer made a trip with the electric motor into
the hill. Cautiously he peered through the windows. No one was there.
Beyond lay warmth and comfort--and a telephone. Fairchild went within
and placed Harry on the floor. Then he reached for the 'phone and
called the hospital.

"Hello!" he announced in a husky, disguised voice. "This is Jeb
Gresham of Georgeville. I 've just found a man lying by the side of
the Diamond J. pumphouse, unconscious, with a big cut in his head. I
've brought him inside. You 'll find him there; I 've got to go on.
Looks like he 's liable to die unless you can send the ambulance for
him."

"We 'll make it a rush trip," came the answer, and Fairchild hung up
the 'phone, to rub his half-frozen, aching feet a moment, then to
reclothe them in the socks and shoes, watching the entrance of the
Diamond J. tunnel as he did so. A long minute--then he left the
pumphouse, made a few tracks in the snow around the entrance, and
walked swiftly down the road. Fifteen minutes later, from a hiding
place at the side of the Clear Creek bridge, he saw the lights of the
ambulance as it swerved to the pumphouse. Out came the stretcher. The
attendants went in search of the injured man. When they came forth
again, they bore the form of Harry Harkins, and the heart of Fairchild
began to beat once more with something resembling regularity. His
partner--at least such was his hope and his prayer--was on the way to
aid and to recovery, while Squint Rodaine would know nothing other than
that he had wandered away! Grateful, lighter in heart than he had been
for days. Fairchild plodded along the road in the tracks of the
ambulance, as it headed back for town.

The news already had spread by the time he reached there; news travels