“Where am I?”
“At the water-hole; sling you in a blanket, and get you into Larned to-morrow.”
There was a moment's silence, Keith finding it hard to speak.
“Hawley—?” he whispered at last.
“Oh, don't worry; you got him all right. Say,” his voice sobering, “maybe it was just as well you took that job. If it had been me I would have been in bad.”
The wounded man's eyes questioned.
“It's a bad mix-up, Keith. Waite never told us all of it. I reckon he didn't want her to know, and she never shall, if I can help it. I Ve been looking over some papers in his pocket—he'd likely been after them this trip—and his name ain't Hawley. He's Bartlett Gale, Christie's father.”
Keith could not seem to grasp the thought, his eyes half-closed.
“Her—her father?” ne questioned, weakly. “Do you suppose he knew?”
“No; not at first, anyhow; not at Sheridan. He was too interested in his scheme to even suspicion he had actually stumbled onto the real girl. I think he just found out.”