CHAPTER XII 

THE FEVER PATIENT 

When Harding scrambled to his feet, with his pistol still aimed, Clarke laughed. 

"You're not only very rash--and very clumsy--but you're lucky. That's the only vacant tepee in the whole village. And my friends don't seem to have heard you." 

They moved on very quickly and cautiously, and when they reached the thick willow bluff, where they were comparatively safe, Harding felt easier. 

It was noon when they stumbled into camp, Harding ragged and exhausted, and Clarke limping after him in an even more pitiable state. The doctor had suffered badly from the hurried march; but his conductor would brook no delay, and the grim hints he had been given encouraged him to put forth his utmost exertion. 

Blake was alive, but when Harding bent over him he feared that help had come too late. His skin looked harsh and dry, his face had grown hollow, and his thick, strong hair had turned lank and was falling out. His eyes were vacant and unrecognizing when he turned them upon Harding. 

"Here's your patient," the American said to Clarke. "We expect you to cure him, and you had better get to work at once." 

Then his face grew troubled as he turned to Benson. 

"How long has he been like that?" he asked. 

"The last two days. I'm afraid he's very bad." 

Harding sat down with a smothered groan. Every muscle seemed to ache; he could scarcely hold himself upright; and his heart was very heavy. He would miss Blake terribly. It was hard to think of going on without him; but he feared that this was inevitable. He was filled with a deep pity for the helpless man; but after a few moments his weary face grew stern. He had done all that he was able, and now Clarke, whom he believed to be a man of high medical skill, must do his part. If he were unsuccessful, it would be the worse for him. 
Had Harding done all he could?
He had done all that he was able, 