One day， about noon， two men drove up to the ranch，alighted， hitched， and came in to dinner； standing andgeneral invitations being the custom of the country. Oneof them was a great San Antonio doctor， whose costlyservices had been engaged by a wealthy cowman who hadbeen laid low by an accidental bullet. He was now beingdriven back to the station to take the train back to town.
After dinner Raidler took him aside， pushed a twentydollarbill against his hand， and said：
“Doc， there’s a young chap in that room I guess has gota bad case of consumption. I’d like for you to look himover and see just how bad he is， and if we can do anythingfor him.”
“How much was that dinner I just ate， Mr. Raidler？”
said the doctor bluffly， looking over his spectacles.
Raidler returned the money to his pocket. The doctorimmediately entered McGuire’s room， and the cattlemanseated himself upon a heap of saddles on the gallery， readyto reproach himself in the event the verdict should beunfavourable.
In ten minutes the doctor came briskly out. “Yourman，” he said promptly， “is as sound as a new dollar. Hislungs are better than mine. Respiration， temperature， andpulse normal. Chest expansion four inches. Not a sign ofweakness anywhere. Of course I didn’t examine for thebacillus， but it isn’t there. You can put my name to thediagnosis. Even cigarettes and a vilely close room haven’thurt him. Coughs， does he？ Well， you tell him it isn’tnecessary. You asked if there is anything we could do forhim. Well， I advise you to set him digging post-holes orbreaking mustangs. There’s our team ready. Good-day， sir.”
And like a puff of wholesome， blustery wind the doctorwas off.
Raidler reached out and plucked a leaf from a mesquitebush by the railing， and began chewing it thoughtfully.
The branding season was at hand， and the next morningRoss Hargis， foreman of the outfit， was mustering hisforce of some twenty-five men at the ranch， ready to startfor the San Carlos range， where the work was to begin.
By six o’clock the horses were all saddled， the grub wagonready， and the cow-punchers were swinging themselvesupon their mounts， when Raidler bade them wait. A boywas bringing up an extra pony， bridled and saddled， to thegate. Raidler walked to McGuire’s room and threw openthe door. McGuire was lying on his cot， not yet dressed，smoking.
“Get up，” said the cattleman， and his voice was clear andbrassy， like a bugle.
“How’s that？” asked McGuire， a little startled.
“Get up and dress. I can stand a rattlesnake， but I hatea liar. Do I have to tell you again？” He caught McGuire bythe neck and stood him on the floor.
“Say， friend，” cried McGuire wildly， “are you bug-house？
I’m sick—see？ I’ll croak if I got to hustle. What’ve I doneto yer？” —he began his chronic whine— “I never asked yerto—”
“Put on your clothes，” called Raidler in a rising tone.
Swearing， stumbling， shivering， keeping his amazed，shining eyes upon the now menacing form of the arousedcattleman， McGuire managed to tumble into his clothes.
Then Raidler took him by the collar and shoved him outand across the yard to the extra pony hitched at the gate.
The cow-punchers lolled in their saddles， open-mouthed.
“Take this man，” said Raidler to Ross Hargis， “and puthim to work. Make him work hard， sleep hard， and eathard. You boys know I done what I could for him， and hewas welcome. Yesterday the best doctor in San Antoneexamined him， and says he’s got the lungs of a burro andthe constitution of a steer. You know what to do with him，Ross.”
Ross Hargis only smiled grimly.
“Aw，” said McGuire， looking intently at Raidler， with apeculiar expression upon his face， “the croaker said I wasall right， did he？ Said I was fakin’， did he？ You put himonto me. You t’ought I wasn’t sick. You said I was a liar.
Say， friend， I talked rough， I know， but I didn’t mean mostof it. If you felt like I did—aw！ I forgot—I ain’t sick， thecroaker says. Well， friend， now I’ll go work for yer. Here’swhere you play even.”
He sprang into the saddle easily as a bird， got the quirtfrom the horn， and gave his pony a slash with it. “Cricket，”
who once brought in Good Boy by a neck at Hawthorne—and a 10 to 1 shot—had his foot in the stirrups again.
McGuire led the cavalcade as they dashed away for SanCarlos， and the cow-punchers gave a yell of applause asthey closed in behind his dust.
But in less than a mile he had lagged to the rear， andwas last man when they struck the patch of high chaparralbelow the horse pens. Behind a clump of this he drew rein，and held a handkerchief to his mouth. He took it awaydrenched with bright， arterial blood， and threw it carefullyinto a clump of prickly pear. Then he slashed with hisquirt again， gasped “G’wan” to his astonished pony， andgalloped after the gang.
That night Raidler received a message from his oldhome in Alabama. There had been a death in the family；an estate was to divide， and they called for him to come.
Daylight found him in the buckboard， skimming theprairies for the station. It was two months before hereturned. When he arrived at the ranch house he foundit well-nigh deserted save for Ylario， who acted as a kindof steward during his absence. Little by little the youthmade him acquainted with the work done while he wasaway. The branding camp， he was informed， was still doingbusiness. On account of many severe storms the cattlehad been badly scattered， and the branding had beenaccomplished but slowly. The camp was now in the valleyof the Guadalupe， twenty miles away.
“By the way，” said Raidler， suddenly remembering， “thatfellow I sent along with them—McGuire—is he workingyet？”
