“I do not know，” said Ylario. “Mans from the camp comeverree few times to the ranch. So plentee work with theleetle calves. They no say. Oh， I think that fellow McGuirehe dead much time ago.”
“Dead！” said Raidler. “What you talking about？”
“Verree sick fellow， McGuire，” replied Ylario， with ashrug of his shoulder. “I theenk he no live one， two monthwhen he go away.”
“Shucks！” said Raidler. “He humbugged you， too， didhe？ The doctor examined him and said he was sound as amesquite knot.”
“That doctor，” said Ylario， smiling， “he tell you so？ Thatdoctor no see McGuire.”
“Talk up，” ordered Raidler. “What the devil do youmean？”
“McGuire，” continued the boy tranquilly， “he gettingdrink water outside when that doctor come in room.
That doctor take me and pound me all over here with hisfingers” —putting his hand to his chest— “I not know forwhat. He put his ear here and here and here， and listen—Inot know for what. He put little glass stick in my mouth.
He feel my arm here. He make me count like whisper—so—twenty， treinta， cuarenta. Who knows，” concludedYlario， with a deprecating spread of his hands， “for whatthat doctor do those verree droll and such-like things？”
“What horses are up？” asked Raidler shortly.
“Paisano is grazing out behind the little corral， senor.”
“Saddle him for me at once.”
Within a very few minutes the cattleman was mountedand away. Paisano， well named after that ungainly butswift-running bird， struck into his long lope that ate upthe ground like a strip of macaroni. In two hours and aquarter Raidler， from a gentle swell， saw the brandingcamp by a water hole in the Guadalupe. Sick withexpectancy of the news he feared， he rode up， dismounted，and dropped Paisano’s reins. So gentle was his heart thatat that moment he would have pleaded guilty to themurder of McGuire.
The only being in the camp was the cook， who was justarranging the hunks of barbecued beef， and distributingthe tin coffee cups for supper. Raidler evaded a directquestion concerning the one subject in his mind.
“Everything all right in camp， Pete？” he managed toinquire.
“So， so，” said Pete， conservatively. “Grub give out twice.
Wind scattered the cattle， and we’ve had to rake the brushfor forty mile. I need a new coffee-pot. And the mosquitosis some more hellish than common.”
“The boys—all well？”
Pete was no optimist. Besides， inquiries concerning thehealth of cow-punchers were not only superfluous， butbordered on flaccidity. It was not like the boss to make them.
“What’s left of ’em don’t miss no calls to grub，” the cookconceded.
“What’s left of ’em？” repeated Raidler in a husky voice.
Mechanically he began to look around for McGuire’sgrave. He had in his mind a white slab such as he had seenin the Alabama church-yard. But immediately he knewthat was foolish.
“Sure，” said Pete； “what’s left. Cow camps change in twomonths. Some’s gone.”
Raidler nerved himself.
“That—chap—I sent along—McGuire—did—he—”
“Say，” interrupted Pete， rising with a chunk of corn breadin each hand， “that was a dirty shame， sending that poor，sick kid to a cow camp. A doctor that couldn’t tell he wasgraveyard meat ought to be skinned with a cinch buckle.
Game as he was， too—it’s a scandal among snakes—lemmetell you what he done. First night in camp the boys startedto initiate him in the leather breeches degree. Ross Hargisbusted him one swipe with his chaparreras， and what doyou reckon the poor child did？ Got up， the little skeeter，and licked Ross. Licked Ross Hargis. Licked him good.
Hit him plenty and everywhere and hard. Ross’d just getup and pick out a fresh place to lay down on agin.
“Then that McGuire goes off there and lays down withhis head in the grass and bleeds. A hem’ridge they calls it.
He lays there eighteen hours by the watch， and they can’tbudge him. Then Ross Hargis， who loves any man whocan lick him， goes to work and damns the doctors fromGreenland to Poland Chiny； and him and Green BranchJohnson they gets McGuire into a tent， and spells eachother feedin’ him chopped raw meat and whisky.
“But it looks like the kid ain’t got no appetite to gitwell， for they misses him from the tent in the night andfinds him rootin’ in the grass， and likewise a drizzle fallin’.
‘G’wan，’ he says， ‘lemme go and die like I wanter. He said Iwas a liar and a fake and I was playin’ sick. Lemme alone.’
“Two weeks，” went on the cook， “he laid around， notnoticin’ nobody， and then—”
A sudden thunder filled the air， and a score of gallopingcentaurs crashed through the brush into camp.
“Illustrious rattlesnakes！” exclaimed Pete， springingall ways at once； “here’s the boys come， and I’m anassassinated man if supper ain’t ready in three minutes.”
But Raidler saw only one thing. A little， brown-faced，grinning chap， springing from his saddle in the full light ofthe fire. McGuire was not like that， and yet—In another instant the cattleman was holding him by thehand and shoulder.
“Son， son， how goes it？” was all he found to say.
“Close to the ground， says you，” shouted McGuire，crunching Raidler’s fingers in a grip of steel； “and dat’swhere I found it—healt’ and strengt’， and tumbled to whata cheap skate I been actin’. T’anks fer kickin’ me out， oldman. And—say！ de joke’s on dat croaker， ain’t it？ I lookedt’rough the window and see him playin’ tag on dat Dagokid’s solar plexus.”
“You son of a tinker，” growled the cattleman， “whyn’tyou talk up and say the doctor never examined you？”
“Ah—g’wan！” said McGuire， with a flash of his oldasperity， “nobody can’t bluff me. You never ast me. Youmade your spiel， and you t’rowed me out， and I let it go atdat. And， say， friend， dis chasin’ cows is outer sight. Dis isde whitest bunch of sports I ever travelled with. You’ll letme stay， won’t yer， old man？”
Raidler looked wonderingly toward Ross Hargis.
“That cussed little runt，” remarked Ross tenderly， “is theJo-dartin’est hustler—and the hardest hitter in anybody’scow camp.”