near at hand, and then the long strain of physical and mental agony had brought about a collapse.
Dick raised his father's head tenderly, imploring him to speak – to tell him what should be done; but the injured man remained silent as if death had interposed to give him relief.
Looking about scrutinizingly, as those born and bred on the frontier learn to do early in life, Dick saw his father's rifle twenty feet or more away, and between it and him a trail of blood through the sage-brush, then a sinister, crimson blotch on the sand.
Mr. Stevens's right leg was the injured member, and it had been wrapped so tightly with the improvised bandages that the boy could form no idea as to the extent of the wound; but he knew it must indeed be serious to overcome so thoroughly one who, though indolent by nature, had undergone much more severe suffering than he could have known since the time of leaving the wagon to search for game.
It seemed to Dick as if more than ten minutes elapsed before his father spoke, and then it was to ask for water.
He might as well have begged for gold, so far as Dick's ability to gratify the desire was concerned.
"To get any, daddy, I may have to go way back to the wagon, for I haven't come upon a single watercourse since leaving camp this morning."
"Your mother and Margie?"
"I left them at the camp. How did you get here?"
"It was just before nightfall. I had been stalking an antelope; was crawling on the ground dragging my rifle, when the hammer must have caught amid the sage-brush; the weapon was discharged, and the bone of my leg appears to be shattered."
"Poor, poor daddy!" and Dick kissed him on the forehead.
"We must be four miles from the camp," Mr. Stevens said, speaking with difficulty because of his parched and swollen tongue.
"I should say so; but I went toward the west, and after travelling until noon struck across this way, so have no idea of the distance."
"I shall die for lack of water, Dick, even though the wound does not kill me."
"How shall I get it, daddy?" the boy cried piteously. "I can't leave you here alone, and I don't believe there's a drop nearer than where we are camped."
"You must leave me, Dick; for you can do no good while staying here, and the thought that help is coming, even though there may be many hours to wait, will give me strength. Can you find your way to the camp and back after nightfall?"
"I'll do it somehow, daddy! I'll do it!"
"Then set out at once, and bring one of the horses back with you. I should be able to ride four miles, or even twice that distance, since it is to save my life."
"But you'll keep up a brave heart, daddy dear, won't you? Don't think you are going to die; but remember that mother and I, and even little Margie, will do all we can to pull you through."
"I know it, Dick, I know it. You are a good lad – far better than I have been father; and if it should chance that when you come back I've gone from this world, remember that you are the only one to whom the mother and baby can look for protection."
"You know I'd always take care of them; but I am going to save you, daddy dear. People have gotten over worse wounds than this, and once you are at the camp we will stay in Buffalo Meadows till it is possible for you to ride. I'll look out for the whole outfit, and from this on you sha'n't have a trouble, except because of the wound."
"Give me your hand, my boy, and now go; for strong as may be my will, I can't stand the loss of much more blood. God bless you, Dick, and remember that I always loved you, even though I never provided for you as a father should have done."
Dick hastily cleared the mist from his eyes, and without speaking darted forward in the direction where he believed the wagon would be found, breaking the sage-brush as he ran in order that he might make plain the trail over which he must return.
CHAPTER II.
A LONELY VIGIL
It was not yet dark when Dick arrived within sight of the wagon, and shouted cheerily that those who were so anxiously awaiting his coming might know he had been fortunate in the search.
As soon as his voice rang out, startlingly loud because of the almost oppressive stillness, Mrs. Stevens appeared from beneath the flap of the canvas covering, and an expression of most intense disappointment passed over her face as she saw that Dick was alone.
"It's all right, mother!" he cried, quickening his pace that she might the sooner be relieved from her suspense. "It's all right!"
"Did you find your father?"
"Yes; an' I've come back for one of the horses. He's been hurt, an' can't walk."
"Thank God he is alive!" she cried, and then for the first time since the previous evening she gave way to tears.
Dick did all he could toward comforting her without making any delay in setting out on the return journey.
While he filled the canteen with fresh water he repeated what his father had bidden him to say; and when his mother asked concerning the wound, he spoke as if he did not consider it serious.
"Of course it's bad, for he thinks one of the bones has been splintered; but I don't see why he shouldn't come 'round all right after a spell. We've known of people who had worse hurts and yet got well."
"But they were where at least something of what might be needed could be procured, while we are here in the desert."
"Not quite so bad as that, mother dear. We have water, and I should be able to get food in plenty. After I've supplied the camp, I'm goin' on foot to Antelope Spring, where we can buy whatever daddy may need."
"Across the desert alone!"
"A boy like me ought to be able to do it, and" —
"Your father hasn't a penny, Dick dear."
"I know that, mother; but I'll sell my rifle before he shall suffer for anything. Now don't worry, and keep up a good heart till I come back."
"Can't I be of some assistance if I go too?"
"You'd better stay here with Margie. Father and I can manage it alone, I reckon."
Then Dick set about catching one of the horses; and as he rode the sorry-looking steed up to the wagon, his mother gave him such articles from her scanty store as the wounded man might need.
"You're a good boy, Dick," she said, as he stooped over to kiss her; "and some day you shall have your reward."
"I'll get it now, mother, if I see you looking a little more jolly; and indeed things ain't quite so bad as they seem, for I can pull our little gang through in great shape, though I'm afraid after it's been done I sha'n't be able to get you and Margie the new outfit I promised."
"We should be so thankful your father is alive as not to realize that we need anything else."
"But you do, just the same, whether you realize it or not; an' I'll attend to everything if I have time enough. Don't trouble yourself if we're not back much before morning, for I reckon daddy can't stand it to ride faster than a walk."
Then,
