Must he answer? He wanted to drift on and on--

"Can you tell me where the pain is?"

Pain? Oh, yes, there had been pain--but he wanted to drift. He opened
his eyes again reluctantly; again the pain clutched him.

"It's--my--foot."

For the first time the eyes of the Little Doctor left his face and
traveled downward to the spurred boots. One was twisted in a horrible
unnatural position that told the agonizing truth--a badly dislocated
ankle. They returned quickly to the face, and swam full of blinding
tears--such as a doctor should not succumb to. He was not drifting
into oblivion now; his teeth were not digging into his lower lip for
nothing, she knew.

"Weary," she said, forgetting to call him properly by name, "ride to
the house and get my medicine case--the little black one. The Countess
knows--and have Slim bring something to carry him home on. And--RIDE!"

Weary was gone before she had finished, and he certainly "rode."

"You'll have another crippled cow-puncher on yer hands, first thing
yuh know," grumbled the Old Man, anxiously, as he watched Weary race
recklessly down the hill.

The Little Doctor did not answer. She scarcely heard him. She was
stroking the hair back from Chip's forehead softly, unconsciously,
wondering why she had never before noticed the wave in it--but then,