"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.
"1 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
