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When he was near the place–so near that he could see a dim, formless shape outlined against the sky-line,–Glory stumbled over a sunken rock and fell heavily upon his knees. When he picked himself up he hobbled and Weary cursed him unpityingly.

When, limping painfully, Glory came up with the object, the heart of Weary rose up and stuck in his throat; for the object was a pinto horse and above it bulked the squat figure of an irate old man.

“Hello, Dock,” greeted Weary. “How do yuh stack up?”

“Mon Dieu, 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, in hushed tones; for the minute he hated the white-bearded old man whose drunkenness had cost the Flying-U so dear. He slipped wearily from the saddle and let the reins drop to the ground. Happy Jack still eyed them silently.

“Well?” asked Weary, when his nerves would bear no more.

“When I git sick,” said Happy Jack, his voice heavy with reproach, “I’ll send you for help–if I want to die.”

“Is he dead?” questioned Weary, in hopeless fashion.

“Well,” said Happy Jack deliberately, “no, he ain’t dead yet–but it’s no thanks to you. Was it poker, or billiards? and who won?”

Weary looked at him dully a moment before he comprehended. He had not had any supper or any deep, and he had ridden many miles in the long hours he had been away. He walked, with a pronounced limp on the leg which had been next the medicine-case, to where Dock stood leaning shakily against the pinto.