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 the pitcher, and some, cooler, to drink, in that red jar hanging on the gallery.

“‘Where’s the bell?” asked McGuire, looking about.

“Bell for what?”

“Bell to ring for things. I can’t—see here,” he exploded in a sudden, weak fury, “I never asked you to bring me here. I never held you up for a cent. I never give you a hard-luck story till you asked me. Here I am fifty miles from a bellboy or a cocktail. I’m sick. I can’t hustle. Gee! but I’m up against it!” McGuire fell upon the cot and sobbed shiveringly.

Raidler went to the door and called. A slender, bright-complexioned Mexican youth about twenty came quickly. Raidler spoke to him in Spanish:

“Ylario, it is in my mind that I promised you the position of vaquero on the San Carlos range at the fall rodea.”

“Si, señor, such was your goodness.”

“Listen. This señorito is my friend. He is very sick. Place yourself at his side. Attend to his wants at all times. Have much patience and care with him. And when he is well, or—and when he is well, instead of vaquero I will make you mayordomo of the Rancho de las Piedras. Esta bueno?”

“Si, si—mil gracias, señor.” Ylario tried to kneel upon the floor in his gratitude, but the cattleman