He looked into my eyes cool and smiling, asking for no help, ready to rely on himself if I wanted to go. A lump came into my throat, for I sure loved that man from the beginning.
"Mr. Balshannon," says I, "put this kid on top of a waggon to watch for Indians, while you dress that wound. I'm off."
He turned his back on me and walked away.
"I'll be back," said I, busy unloading my pack-horse. "I'll be back," I called after him, "when I bring help!"
At that he swung sudden and came up against me. "Er—thanks," he said, and grabbed my paw. "I'm awfully obliged, don't you know."
I swung to my saddle and loped off for help.
CHAPTER II
LORD BALSHANNON
With all the signs and the signal smokes pointing for war, I reckoned I could dispense with that Ocean and stay round to see the play. Moreover, there was this British lord, lost in the desert, wounded some, helpless as a baby, game as a grizzly bear, ringed round with dead horses and dead Apaches, and his troubles appealed to me plentiful. I scouted around until I hit a live trail, then streaked away to find people. I was doubtful if I had done right in case that lord got massacred, me being absent, so I rode hard, and at noon saw the smoke of a camp against the Tres Hermanos Mountains. It proved to be a cow camp with all the boys at dinner.