A man moving as Patches moved is not an easy mark.  The same man armed, and protected by the trunk of a tree, is still more difficult.  A moment after he had gained cover, the cowboy heard the clatter of a horse’s feet, near the spot from which the shots had come, and by the sound knew that the unseen marksman had chosen to retire with only half his evident purpose accomplished, rather than take the risk that had arisen with Patches’ success in turning the ambush into an open fight.

As the sound of the horse’s swift rush down the side of the ridge grew fainter and fainter, Patches ran to Phil.

A quick examination told him that the bullet had entered just under the right shoulder, and that the man, though unconscious and, no doubt, seriously wounded, was living.

With rude bandages made by tearing his shirt into strips Patches checked the flow of blood, and bound up the wound as best he could.  Then for a moment he considered.  It was between three and four miles to the ranch.  He could ride there and back in a few minutes.  Someone must start for a doctor without an instant’s loss of time.  With water, proper bandages and stimulants, the wounded man could be cared for and moved in the buckboard with much greater safety than he could be carried in his present condition on a horse.  The risk of leaving him for a few minutes was small, compared to the risk of taking him to the house under the only conditions possible.  The next instant Patches was in Phil’s saddle and riding as he had never ridden before.

Jim Reid, with Kitty and Helen, was on the way back from Prescott as Kitty had planned.  They were within ten miles of the ranch when the cattleman, who sat at the wheel of the automobile, saw a horseman coming toward them.  A moment he watched the approaching figure, then, over his shoulder, he said to the girls, “Look at that fellow ride.  There’s something doin’, sure.”  As he spoke he turned the machine well out of the road.

A moment later he added, “It’s Curly Elson from the Cross-Triangle.  Somethin’s happened in the valley.”  As he spoke, he stopped the machine, and sprang out so that the cowboy could see and recognize him.

Curly did not draw rein until he was within a few feet of Reid; then he brought his running horse up with a suddenness that threw the animal on its haunches.

Curly spoke tersely.  “Phil Acton is shot.  We need a doctor quick.”

Without a word Jim Reid leaped into the automobile.  The car backed to turn around.  As it paused an instant before starting forward again, Kitty put her hand on her father’s shoulder.

“Wait!” she cried.  “I’m going to Phil.  Curly, I want your horse; you can go with father.”

The cowboy was on the ground before she had finished speaking.  And before the automobile was under way Kitty was riding back the way Curly had come.