“You’ve sprained your ankle!” she cried.
“Afraid so. It’s my own rotten carelessness.” He broke into a storm of curses and limped forward a dozen steps, but he had to set his teeth to stand the pain.
“Lean on me,” she said, gently. “I reckon I’ll have to,” he grimly answered.
They covered a quarter of a mile, with many stops to rest the swollen ankle. Only by the irregularity of his breathing and the damp moisture on his forehead could she tell the agony he was enduring.
“It must be dreadful,” she told him once.
“I’ve got to stand for it, I reckon.”
Again she said, when they had reached a wooded grove where pines grew splendid on a carpet of grass: “Only two hundred yards more. I think I can bring your pony as far as the big cottonwood.”
She noticed that he leaned heavier and heavier on her. However, when they reached the cottonwood he leaned no more, but pitched forward in a faint. The water bottle was empty, but she ran down to where the ponies had been left, and presently came back with his canteen. She had been away perhaps twenty minutes, and when she came back he waved a hand airily at her.
“First time in my life that ever happened,” he apologized, gayly. “But why didn’t y’u get on Jim and cut loose for the Lazy D while you had the chance?”
“I didn’t think of it. Perhaps I shall next time.”