Stumbling along the slippery
trail, he cursed his clumsiness. A chill sweat gathered on his face.
His legs trembled and he was forced to rest frequently. Crossing a
stream, he stooped and drank. Then he toiled on, eagerly scanning the
hoof-prints in the rain-gutted trail.

The sun was high when he arrived at the wagon-road above the Concho.
Dazed and weak, he endeavored to determine which direction the horse
had taken. The heat of the sun oppressed him. He became faint, and,
crawling beneath the shade of a wayside fir, he rested, promising
himself that he would, when the afternoon shadows drifted across the
road, make his way to the Concho. He had slept little more than an
hour when the swift patter of hoofs wakened him. As he got to his
feet, a buckboard, drawn by a pair of pinto range-ponies, drew up.
Corliss started back. The Mexican driving the ponies turned toward the
sweet-faced Spanish woman beside him as though questioning her
pleasure. She spoke in quick, low accents. He cramped the wagon and
she stepped to the road. The Senora Loring, albeit having knowledge of
his recent return to Antelope, his drinking, and all the unsavory
rumors connected with his return, greeted Corliss as a mother greets a
wayward son. She set all this knowledge aside and spoke to him with
the placid wisdom of her years and nature. Her gentle solicitude
touched him. She had been his foster-mother in those years that he and
his brother had known no other fostering hand than that of old Hi
Wingle, the cook, whose efforts to "raise" the Corliss boys were more
largely faithful than discriminating.

Senora Loring knew at a glance that he was in trouble of some kind.
She asked no questions, but held out her hands.

Corliss, blind with tears, dropped to his knee: "Madre! Madre!" he
cried.

She patted his head. "You come with me. Then perhaps you have to say
to me that which now you do not say."

He shook his head, but she paid no attention, leading the way to the
buckboard. He climbed beside the driver, then with an ejaculation of
apology, leaped to the road and helped her in.

"Where you would like to go?" she asked. "The Concho?"

Again he shook his head. "I can't. I--"

She questioned his hesitation with her eyes.

"I'll tell you when--when I feel better. Madre, I'm sick."

"I know," she said.

Then, turning to the driver, she gestured down the wagon-trail.

They drove through the morning woodlands, swu