“Who’s shooting?”

Still without speaking, Douglas threw himself on his horse and was off after the dim figure that raced down the west trail which led to the Pass.  He did not heed Judith’s call nor the quick patter of hoofs behind him.  On and on through the frosty April night, Prince barking joyfully before, the Moose galloping at top speed, the stars sliding overhead.  On past the Browns’ noisy corral, past Falkner’s brightly lighted cabin, and up the lifting trail to the Pass.  The broken black line of the Pass, usually so clean-cut against the stars, looked wavering and uncertain.  Douglas dropped forward and put his arms about the neck of the Moose.

Once in a while a horse is born with as much acumen as a mule plus the sensibility of a dog.  The Moose, when he felt Doug’s arms about his neck, dropped from a gallop to a trot and from a trot to a walk.  Shortly, when Judith called, “Whoa-up, Moose!” he stopped and stood nickering uneasily.  Judith dismounted and pulled the reins over Buster’s head.  Then she ran up to put her hand on Doug’s knee.

“Doug!  Doug!  Where did he get you?”

“Don’t hold me back, Jude!” said Douglas thickly.  “Tie me onto the Moose and leave me after him.  I’m going to finish him, now.”

“You can’t catch him.  You’re hurt too bad.  Let me take you home, Doug.”

There was no reply for a moment.  The Moose moved his head uneasily up and down.  Then, breathing heavily and brokenly, Douglas said, “Not—­while you—­think I told—­Charleton.”

That was the last he knew for some time.  When he returned to consciousness, Peter and Judith were half dragging him, half lifting him into the post-office.

“I don’t care what you want, Jude,” Peter was saying, “you aren’t going to drag him another hour over the trail.  We’ll get him onto my bed and see how bad off he is.”

“My shoulder!” grunted Douglas.

“All right, Doug!  Now, Judith, one more heave onto the bed.  Get off there, Sister.  Jude, pass me that bottle of whiskey, then go lock the outside door so’s no one can bother till I’ve finished.  Then come back here.”

Judith, her eyes wide and brilliant, her cheeks feverish, obeyed without a word.  She drew off Doug’s short leather rider’s coat and cut off his blood-saturated shirt and undershirt.  Douglas watched her with beads of sweat on his lips.  Peter in the meantime had thrust his late supper back from the front of the stove and had put a couple of disreputable looking towels to boil in the dishpan.  When Judith had finished and Doug’s beautiful thin torso lay white against the dingy Indian blanket, Peter scoured his hands and examined the hole in the shoulder from which the blood pulsed slowly.

“It’s gone clean through from front to back,” said Peter cheerfully.  “Guess I can fix him.  Eight years in the regular service is useful sometimes.  Come here and hold him, Jude.  I’m going to clean this hole with peroxide and he’ll try to climb the wall.”