back.

The thought of this drove her into the house, to have Val's bed prepared
for the sufferer, whoever he was. Almost unconsciously she put on the
little table beside the bed a bunch of everlasting prairie flowers, and
shaded the light to the point of quiet and comfort.

Then she went outside again. The travellers now were not far away. She
recognised the upright rider. It was Pretty Pierre. The other--she
could not tell. She called to her father. She had a fear which she did
not care to face alone. "See, see, father," she said, "Pretty Pierre
and--and can it be Val?" For the moment she seemed unable to stir. But
the old man shook his head, and said: "No, Jen, it can't be. It ain't
Val."

Then another thought possessed her. Her lips trembled, and, throwing her
head back as does a deer when it starts to shake off its pursuers by
flight, she ran swiftly towards the riders. The traveller standing
beside Galbraith said: "That man is hurt, wounded probably. I didn't
expect to have a patient in the middle of the plains. I'm a doctor.
Perhaps I can be of use here?" When a hundred yards away Jen recognised
the recumbent rider. A thousand thoughts flashed through her brain.
What had happened? Why was he dressed in civilian's clothes? A moment,
and she was at his horse's head. Another, and her warm hand clasped the
pale, moist, and wrinkled one which hung by the horse's neck. His coat
at the shoulder was stained with blood, and there was a handkerchief
about his head. This--this was Sergeant Tom Gellatly!

She looked up at Pierre, an agony of inquiry in her eyes, and pointing
mutely to the wounded man. Pierre spoke with a tone of seriousness not