, raving. Mercedes hung over him with jealous,
passionate care and did all that could have been humanly done for a
man. She grew wan, absorbed, silent. But suddenly, and to Gale's
amaze and thanksgiving, there came an abatement of Thorne's fever. With
it some of the heat and redness of the inflamed wound disappeared.
Next morning he was conscious, and Gale grasped some of the hope that
Mercedes had never abandoned. He forced her to rest while he attended
to Thorne. That day he saw that the crisis was past. Recovery for
Thorne was now possible, and would perhaps depend entirely upon the
care he received.

Jim Lash's wound healed without any aggravating symptoms. It would be
only a matter of time until he had the use of his leg again. All these
days, however, there was little apparent change in Ladd's condition
unless it was that he seemed to fade away as he lingered. At first his
wounds remained open; they bled a little all the time outwardly,
perhaps internally also; the blood did not seem to clot, and so the
bullet holes did not close. Then Yaqui asked for the care of Ladd.
Gale yielded it with opposing thoughts--that Ladd would waste slowly
away till life ceased, and that there never was any telling what might
lie in the power of this strange Indian. Yaqui absented himself from
camp for a while, and when he returned he carried the roots and leaves
of desert plants unknown to Gale. From these the Indian brewed an
ointment. Then he stripped the bandages from Ladd and applied the
mixture to his wounds. That done, he let him lie with the wounds
exposed to the air, at night covering him. Next day he again exposed
the wounds to the warm, dry air. Slowly they closed, and Ladd ceased
to bleed externally.

Days passed and grew into what Gale imagined must have been weeks.
Yaqui recovered fully. Jim Lash began to move about on a crutch; he
shared the Indian's watch over Ladd. Thorne lay haggard, emaciated
ghost of his rugged self, but with life in the eyes that turned always
toward Mercedes. Ladd lingered and lingered. The life seemingly would
not leave his bullet-pierced body. He faded, withered, shrunk till he
was almost a skeleton. He knew those who worked and watched over him,
but he had no power of speech. His eyes and eyelids moved; the rest of
him seemed stone. All those days nothing except water was given him.
It was marvelous how tenaciously, however feebly, he clung to life.
Gale imagined it was