"Into the cook tent," whispered Reade. "Don Luis, if he should visit us, is less likely to look there than anywhere else."
Into the cook tent they bore the stranger, arranging a bed on the floor, and covering the sick man with such blankets as his condition appeared to call for.
"I am back, caballeros," announced Nicolas, treading softly into the tent. "To the praise of Heaven, be it said, I secured the medicines you told me to get."
Then Nicolas stopped short, gazing wonderingly at the fever-flushed face of the stranger.
CHAPTER XVIII
CRAFT—OR SURRENDER?
"He's a puzzle," remarked Harry, four days later.
"Meaning our sick man?"
"Of course. But he isn't going to be a sick man much longer, thanks to you, Tom. You were born to be a physician."
"Don't you believe it," smiled Reade. "The only previous experience I've had was when I simply had to pull you through out on Indian Smoke Range last winter. Harry, I was afraid you were a goner, and I couldn't let you go. But then, just when you were at your worst I had the best of outside help in pulling you through."