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 having put the cattle and horses into a pasture, but he shivered all night and slept very little.

Tom was worried, but Jake seemed better the next day, except for a small hacking cough. He was not cold any longer, and he talked more than usual. Tom, trying to forget the Dowlings, found himself willy-nilly involved in long discussions of them. It was a painful business all round, and it was not improved by Jake's revelation that Henry Dowling had refused to finance the defence in the forthcoming trial.

"What pains me," he said, "is that I sure thought he'd do it," Jake finished. "But it seems like something made him change his mind. You didn't write a letter to the girl, Tom, did you?"

"No," Tom said shortly.

When, after five days on the way they reached the homestead, Jake was a very sick man. Tom turned out the stock and came back to find Jake in one of the built-in bunks in the cabin, just as he had left the saddle. He built a roaring fire and Jake roused and looked around.

"I can't bring her here, Tom. Never."

"It looks bad now, but it won't take much to make it weather tight."

But Jake only groaned.

By morning Tom knew Jake had pneumonia, and that unless he had help he would die. He saddled the Miller, piled wood by the fire, put water by Jake's bunk and started off. It took him half a day to make the ride, going at his horse's best speed, and when he finally got to Ursula Doctor Dunham was out in the back country somewhere on a case. It was almost evening when they started back, this time in the doctor's car. There were no roads; only a track which led down into ravines, turned precariously on itself, led up again. Tom drove, the little old medical man sat huddled in the seat beside him. Only once, after the car had lurched and almost gone over a bank, did he protest.

"Hell's bells, Tom!" he said. "If you've got another attack of that recurrent homicidal mania of yours, better wait until we're on the way back."