the boys took the first part o' the night, an' at twelve o'clock it wus my turn to be on herd. Wall, I wus tired an' not in the best trim fur doin' any fightin', if there wus Indians about; but I wus in fur it, an' of course I couldn't back out; besides, I wus takin' the place o' the boss, an' I had to see that everythin' wus right. I had a good strong cup o' tea at the ranch an' rode out to take my partner's place. When I got up to the spot where we had agreed to watch, I saw him sittin' on horseback, never movin'. I called out low so as no one else wud hear, but he didn't answer. It was dark; I rode up near to him. My mare began to snort, and then she gave a terrible spring an' bolted. I held on fur a minute when, whiz! whiz! came two bullets after me. Had my partner turned traitor, or did he think that I was an Indian? In another minute an Indian came rushin' past me. He gave a wild warwhoop an' made a swoop at me with his big knife, but in the darkness he missed me. I kept a sharp lookout fur my partner, but I couldn't find him. I wus lookin' round with my sharpshooter in my hand, when I saw a tall object comin' toward me. I grasped my revolver firm an' kept my eye on the movin' figure—"

Tom had reached this part of his story when the cowboys, who had been listening intently, started and turned their heads. There was an unusual noise outside. Still affected by the story and their minds full of Indians and enemies, they drew their revolvers and made for the door. After a momentary hesitation, the first one to reach it threw it wide open. It was no enemy, although the noise made by the new-comers was of so unusual a nature as to startle the cowboys almost as much as if it had been the discharge of half a dozen revolvers. Upon an Indian travaille, wrapped in a buffalo robe, lay a man apparently dead or dying. The sound of the travaille, as it was dragged over the frozen snow, and the loud voices and shouts of the two horsemen who accompanied it, was very different from the merry laugh or song of the cowboy and the swift rush of his horse's feet over the prairie to the door of a ranch.

The three men had been out hunting cattle, and late that afternoon while passing some Indian lodges at the edge of the wood, several ugly curs rushed out and snapping at the heels of the horses had made them rear and plunge. The horse which Sam Lynch had ridden was frightened by the sudden onslaught of the dogs, had kicked and plunged, and, rearing, had fallen over backwards with his rider under him.

Sam's companions thought at first that he was killed, and the Indians had rushed out to see the victim of the calamity. They carried him into one of the lodges and the medicine-men gave him some of their remedies; but his comrades, fearing that he might have sustained some internal injuries, thought it would be unwise to trust to the knowledge of the Indian doctor. As soon as he recovered consciousness, they secured the loan of a travaille and started, hoping to find better medical aid and care for him at one of the ranches. They travelled several weary miles and reached the Oxley ranch, as we have seen, after dark.

The lads lifted the injured, apparently dying man, and carried him into the shanty. They laid him on the best couch they possessed, thinking only of making him as comfortable as their means and the accommodation at their command would permit. Although the storm was still severe, one of them set out in search of a doctor, riding fifty miles to reach one and procure his services.

When Sam had been obliged to seek his straying cattle his wife was ill, and his only child, a little girl five years of age, had succeeded in finding an Indian woman to take care of them during his absence; but the boys, knowing how dependent they were upon Sam, felt that every effort must be made to restore him to the wife and child who needed his care and protection. When the doctor had examined Sam's injuries he shook his head, and told the men that though he would probably recover he would be a cripple for life.

During the three or four weeks that Sam lay at the Oxley ranch he was well cared for by the rough but kindly cowboys, and when he was able to move they took him home. Sam was not able to ride, so a buckboard was called into requisition for his conveyance. He was very grateful to them for all their care, and when one of them put fifty dollars into his hand, telling him they had made it up among themselves to help him to keep hunger from his door until he was able to fight it himself, he knew not how to express his thanks. Rough, kindly lads, they proffered their gift in so unostentatious a manner that the value of it was enhanced tenfold both in the heart of the recipient and in the sight of the Giver of all good gifts.

Sam found his wife very low, but she seemed to be comfortable. When he went round the house and into the out-buildings he was struck by the neatness and evidence of care and comfort he found everywhere. There were several cords of wood piled neatly in one place, and a quantity split up and laid in the yard. The stables were clean, the small storehouse had been repaired; there was an abundance of food provided, and there were several hand-made articles of furniture in the house Sam did not remember having seen before. Someone had certainly been taking a deep and helpful interest in his affairs during his absence. Who it was he could not tell. His wife was unable to answer any questions he might ask; she seemed to be at the point of death, and he needed no experienced eye to tell him that her hours were numbered. He was still so weak from the effects of his accident that the little exertion wearied him. Sitting down in a chair by the fire, unable to do anything except to watch the dying woman, he let his thoughts dwell upon his many troubles, while he wondered from whom the strange help had come.

Presently his wife opened her eyes and beckoned him to her side.

"Sam," she said feebly, "you have been a good husband to me. When you got hurt I thought I would die, and I was so anxious about you and Minnie. My heart was hard against God and I could not weep. I could not see why we should be compelled to suffer so much, but I can see it all now, and as I lie here at night praying I can say, 'Thy will be done!' I know it is hard to think what will become of you when I am gone, Minnie so young and you so crippled, but God has been good to us. You see how things have been provided for us while you were away, an' I'm sure you will not suffer after I'm gone. Never look to yourself, but trust in the wisdom of our Father in heaven," and she sank back on the pillow exhausted with the long speech. Sam looked at her with loving, sad eyes. He said nothing, but was thinking seriously of her words, and wondering what the end would be.

The future was desolate to the poor man as he sat thinking, his face buried in his hands, no sound in the room but the labored breathing of the sick woman. The door opened and Sam raised his head. It was Broncho Jake with his arms laden with parcels. He had been away to the settlement, and was now returning with a supply of groceries for the house. Putting them down on the table he held out his hand to Sam. "Sam, my heart is sore fur ye," he said gently. "You an' me have been friends fur many years, an' I hae come to help ye. When ye wus hurt I wus a ridin' the range just doin' the work of a Gospel cowboy, an' one o' the lads told me about yer wife. I wus readin' the Guide Book an' I seed my brand, an' as I wus lookin' at it I could see the bulletin o' the Cowboys' Association had on it the words, 'Pure religion an' undefiled before God an' the Father is this, to visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction, an' to keep himself unspotted from the world.' Now that means when anybody is sick or poor there's no use singin' an' prayin' if there's no wood in the house. It means that if ye would serve the Maister ye're to chop wood fur the sick, mind the house, make a chair, carry in water, and get them som'at to eat. Singin' an' prayin' isna religion. The Maister