"No."
"You see, if the woman was very ill, the fellow would say it was a doctor he was riding for."
"No; it would be a priest. These women do their own doctoring. If herb teas and prayers can't save a life, it is let die. Good God! She may be dying now while we talk. Let the boy go!"
"Well, I'll be damned!"
The sheriff was staring at Bryton, whose face was white and set. He was untying his horse, with quick decided movements, and cinching up the girth.
"If you don't send the boy on that errand, I'll go myself," he said, curtly.
"Well—I'll be—" The sheriff broke his sentence midway, to stare at Bryton in amazement. "What the devil is it to you?" he demanded. "Arteaga is no bosom friend of yours, is he?"
"Not that I know of. If the boy doesn't go, I go! The girl may be dying, and the help she wants, she's going to get. Speak up!"
He was in the saddle, and the sheriff, with one look at him, walked back to the group.
"Boy, do you carry only a message to Don Rafael Arteaga?" he demanded, "or is it a written letter?"