_, Weary Davitson, I feex yous plandy. What for do you dees
t'ing? I not do de harrm wis you. I not got de mooney wort' all dees
troubles what you makes. Dees horse, she lak for keel me also. She
buck, en keeck, en roon--_mon Dieu_, I not like dees t'ing."

"Sober, by thunder!" ejaculated Weary in an ecstatic half-whisper.
"Dock, you've got a chance to make a record for yourself to-night--if
we ain't too late," he added bodefully. "Do yuh know where we're
headed for?"

"I t'ink for de devil," retorted Old Dock peevishly.

"No sir, we aren't. We're going straight to camp, and you're going to
save old Patsy--you like Patsy, you know; many's the time you've tanked
up together and then fell on each other's necks and wept because the
good old times won't come again. He got poisoned on canned corn; the
Lord send he ain't too dead for you to cure him. Come on--we better
hit the breeze. We've lost a heap uh time."

"I not like dees rope; she not comforte. I have ride de bad horse when
you wass in cradle."

Weary got down and went over to him. "All right, I'll unwind yuh.
When we started, yuh know, yuh couldn't uh rode a rocking chair. I was
plumb obliged to tie yuh on. Think we'll be in time to help Patsy? He
was taken sick about four o'clock."

Old Dock waited till he was untied and the remnant of bridle-rein was
placed in his hand, before he answered ironically: "I not do de mageec,
_mon cher_ Weary. I mos' have de medicine or I can do nottings, I not
wave de fingaire an' say de vord."

"That's all right--I've got the whole works. I broke into your shack
and made a clean haul uh dope. And I want to tell yuh that for a
doctor you've got blame poor ventilation to your house. But I found
the medicine."

"Mon Dieu!" was the astonished comment, and after that they rode in
silence and such haste as Glory's lameness would permit.

The first beams of the sun were touching redly the hilltops and the
birds were singing from swaying weeds when they rode down the last
slope into the valley where camped the Flying-U.

The night-hawk had driven the horses into the rope-corral and men were
inside watching, with spread loop, for a chance to throw. Happy Jack,
with the cook's apron tied tightly around his lank middle, stood
despondently in the doorway of the mess-tent and said no word as they
approached. In his silence--in his very presence there--Weary read
disaster.

"I guess we're too late," he told Dock,