McGuire sat， collapsed into his corner of the seat，receiving with acid suspicion the conversation of thecattleman. What was the “game” of this big “geezer” whowas carrying him off？ Altruism would have been McGuire’slast guess. “He ain’t no farmer，” thought the captive， “andhe ain’t no con man， for sure. W’at’s his lay？ You trail in，Cricket， and see how many cards he draws. You’re up againstit， anyhow. You got a nickel and gallopin’ consumption， andyou better lay low. Lay low and see w’at’s his game.”
At Rincon， a hundred miles from San Antonio， theyleft the train for a buckboard which was waiting there forRaidler. In this they travelled the thirty miles betweenthe station and their destination. If anything could， thisdrive should have stirred the acrimonious McGuire toa sense of his ransom. They sped upon velvety wheelsacross an exhilarant savanna. The pair of Spanish poniesstruck a nimble， tireless trot， which gait they occasionallyrelieved by a wild， untrammelled gallop. The air waswine and seltzer， perfumed， as they absorbed it， with thedelicate redolence of prairie flowers. The road perished，and the buckboard swam the uncharted billows of thegrass itself， steered by the practised hand of Raidler， towhom each tiny distant mott of trees was a signboard，each convolution of the low hills a voucher of courseand distance. But McGuire reclined upon his spine，seeing nothing but a desert， and receiving the cattleman’sadvances with sullen distrust. “W’at’s he up to？” was theburden of his thoughts； “w’at kind of a gold brick hasthe big guy got to sell？” McGuire was only applying themeasure of the streets he had walked to a range boundedby the horizon and the fourth dimension.
A week before， while riding the prairies， Raidler hadcome upon a sick and weakling calf deserted and bawling.
Without dismounting he had reached and slung thedistressed bossy across his saddle， and dropped it at theranch for the boys to attend to. It was impossible forMcGuire to know or comprehend that， in the eyes of thecattleman， his case and that of the calf were identical ininterest and demand upon his assistance. A creature wasill and helpless； he had the power to render aid—thesewere the only postulates required for the cattleman toact. They formed his system of logic and the most of hiscreed. McGuire was the seventh invalid whom Raidler hadpicked up thus casually in San Antonio， where so manythousand go for the ozone that is said to linger about itscontracted streets. Five of them had been guests of SolitoRanch until they had been able to leave， cured or better，and exhausting the vocabulary of tearful gratitude. Onecame too late， but rested very comfortably， at last， under aratama tree in the garden.
So， then， it was no surprise to the ranchhold when thebuckboard spun to the door， and Raidler took up his debileprotege like a handful of rags and set him down upon thegallery.
McGuire looked upon things strange to him. The ranchhousewas the best in the country. It was built of brickhauled one hundred miles by wagon， but it was of butone story， and its four rooms were completely encircledby a mud floor “gallery.” The miscellaneous setting ofhorses， dogs， saddles， wagons， guns， and cow-punchers’
paraphernalia oppressed the metropolitan eyes of thewrecked sportsman.
“Well， here we are at home，” said Raidler， cheeringly.
“It’s a h—l of a looking place，” said McGuire promptly，as he rolled upon the gallery floor in a fit of coughing.
“We’ll try to make it comfortable for you， buddy，” saidthe cattleman gently. “It ain’t fine inside； but it’s theoutdoors， anyway， that’ll do you the most good. This’ll beyour room， in here. Anything we got， you ask for it.”
He led McGuire into the east room. The floor wasbare and clean. White curtains waved in the gulf breezethrough the open windows. A big willow rocker， twostraight chairs， a long table covered with newspapers，pipes， tobacco， spurs， and cartridges stood in the centre.
Some well-mounted heads of deer and one of an enormousblack javeli projected from the walls. A wide， cool cotbedstood in a corner. Nueces County people regardedthis guest chamber as fit for a prince. McGuire showed hiseyeteeth at it. He took out his nickel and spun it up to theceiling.
“T’ought I was lyin’ about the money， did ye？ Well， youcan frisk me if you wanter. Dat’s the last simoleon in thetreasury. Who’s goin’ to pay？”
The cattleman’s clear grey eyes looked steadily fromunder his grizzly brows into the huckleberry optics of hisguest. After a little he said simply， and not ungraciously， “I’llbe much obliged to you， son， if you won’t mention moneyany more. Once was quite a plenty. Folks I ask to my ranchdon’t have to pay anything， and they very scarcely everoffers it. Supper’ll be ready in half an hour. There’s waterin the pitcher， and some， cooler， to drink， in that red jarhanging on the gallery.”
“Where’s the bell？” asked McGuire， looking about.
“Bell for what？”
“Bell to ring for things. I can’t—see here，” he explodedin a sudden， weak fury， “I never asked you to bring mehere. I never held you up for a cent. I never gave you ahard-luck story till you asked me. Here I am fifty milesfrom a bellboy or a cocktail. I’m sick. I can’t hustle. Gee！
but I’m up against it！” McGuire fell upon the cot andsobbed shiveringly.
Raidler went to the door and called. A slender， brightcomplexionedMexican youth about twenty came quickly.
Raidler spoke to him in Spanish.
“Ylario， it is in my mind that I promised you the positionof vaquero on the San Carlos range at the fall rodeo.”
“Si， senor， such was your goodness.”
“Listen. This senorito is my friend. He is very sick.
Place yourself at his side. Attend to his wants at all times.
Have much patience and care with him. And when he iswell， or—and when he is well， instead of vaquero I willmake you mayordomo of the Rancho de las Piedras. Estabueno？”