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clung to the lower end, while above the rock dropped twenty feet. Seated with his back to the willows, and with his legs extending up the slope, he removed his belt and gray flannel shirt. Cutting the sleeves from the shirt, he folded it into a pad, and slipped it under the injured member.

After throwing countless stones, he succeeded in starting a slide that brought within his reach several large splinters from the shattered cedar. With his small axe and his pocket knife, he fashioned two crude boards six inches wide and three feet long. One of these splints he poked under each side of the flannel shirt padding. He then cut a four-foot splint, and laid it beside him.

Next, with his belt and the sleeves of the shirt, he made a short rope, to one end of which he fastened a stone as large as he could handle. Tying the other end of the rope to the willows, he rolled the stone to the edge above, and lowered it as far as the rope would let it go. He then untied the end near him, and made it fast to his foot.

His face went white as the snow in the crevice beside him. Great beads of icy sweat ran down upon his beard. His body grew rigid, as his hands, served by the iron of his will, gripped his knee, and pulled against the heavy weight.

He could feel and hear the grinding of the broken ends. With one hand he clutched a willow stub behind him, while with the other he manipulated the bone in an effort to line it to its natural position. Followed an endless round of pulls upon the stub, slight adjustments of the fractured parts, and slow relaxations to determine results.

At last he was satisfied. His exploring fingers assured him that the ends fitted perfectly. With a sigh of relief he filled and lit his pipe. After cutting the leg of the overalls into bandages, he drew the splints up on each side of his leg, and slipped the long board underneath in such a position that the other rested upon it. While the rock weight held the leg in place, he made the whole rigid by the appli

cation of a number of strings and bandages. He was especially careful to secure the foot in such a position that it could not move. When the binding was completed, he removed the weight, and from the sleeve-rope made a sling which he tied to the three splints at his foot, and adjusted to a proper length around his neck. He next made two rough crutches from sticks of cedar.

He saw his rifle lying among the rocks, but decided against taking it. He was particular, however, to fix its location in his mind, using for that purpose a clump of willows and a leaning hemlock on the bank. Replacing his belt and jacket, he prepared to rise, then paused to look at his watch. It was after four.

Supporting himself upon the upheld crutches, he drew his sound leg back, and with painful deliberation raised himself until he stood erect, the injured leg, held up by the sling around his neck, sticking out in front. Thoughtfully planning each step, considering each smallest movement, he climbed the bank. He was forced to proceed crab-like, with the projecting leg parallel with the bank, and over much of the distance he dragged himself upon his left side, taking advantage, with hand and foot, of every bush and stone. It was terrible work, but, true to his plan, he went at it slowly, did not hurry, and never grew impatient over his slow progress. Not for an instant did he allow the consuming pain to urge him to attempt a faster gait.

The blustery November day had faded to a chill, frosty night when he drew himself upon the last rock at the top of the bank. The fact that it was night caused him not an extra pang of depression. He knew that he must camp out, not one night, but two; he had even decided on the location of the first camp, and had recommended to himself a good spot for the second. He knew that he had ten miles to go, and that he must cover that distance before he could hope to obtain food. He fully understood the dangers that lurked along

that rough trail, and realized that only by the most snail-like creeping could he escape a dangerous fall. fall. He

worked out a schedule of half a mile an hour, and began dividing the long trail into half-mile stretches, with a resting place at the end of each.

It was very dark when he started on, but the wind had gone down, and although there was the sharp bite of frost in the mountain air, the sky had cleared and the stars were coming out. He proceeded with the greatest caution. Each simple movement that went into the making of a step received the full power of his mind. It was a problem whose solution he first thought out to the most minute detail, and then executed with the most rigid faithfulness to his plan. He moved a crutch only after assuring his perfect balance upon the sound foot and the other crutch; he planted the crutch only after a careful testing of the new position. His progress was slow and painful, but it was steady and sure, and an hour of hobbling agony took him across the flat to the foot of a ridge up which he must climb. Penetrating a fir thicket, he reached large pine that had been razed by the storms of the previous winter, and in the dry windfall of its top he prepared to spend the night. Soon he had a fire started, and with unlimited fuel at hand he stretched himself on the ground.

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nest oath, which changed to a chuckle when he realized that the tooth was quiet.

"I reckon that bump sure knocked the toothache."

The long night passed. Shortly before daylight the moon rose, and by the aid of its light Quigley cut two saplings and made a better pair of crutches. When these were completed, and padded to his satisfaction, he left the warm comfort of the fire, and began toiling up the ridge. It was a clear morning, and soon the rising sun cheered from his whistling lips a garbled version of a bar of opera. During his periods of rest, he feasted his eyes on the white, sharply defined teeth of the Western summit.

In walking, deliberation seemed to become a mania. Methodically, slowly and with infinite care he shifted one crutch, then the other, and lastly his foot. Over and over he performed the same series of movements, but they never became mechanical or voluntary; each step was different from every other step, and each foot of ground presented a fresh problem.

As time passed, the heavy, grinding pain became worse. The leg was swelling, and each time he rested he tried to relieve the throbbing by changing the bandages one by one.

Noon found him on the summit of a ridge with one-third of the distance behind him. His tobacco was getting low, and he figured out a schedule of smokes. He must make just so many half-mile marches between them. The weakness of hunger menaced him more and more, yet he forced his mind from that phase of his suffering, and only during his spells of relaxation did he allow himself to think of the pot of beans in the Dutch oven, or permit his imagination the luxury of menu building.

That night he camped on a live oak flat and had a better fire. The pain was greater and the leg was swollen to the hip. The night was an eternity of semi-consciousness, half-asleep,

half-delirium.

A bright morning cleared his head.

Sunrise found him dragging his aching body through the same endless methodical steps. With With his entire will and mind concentrated upon the act of walking, he was able to subdue, in a measure, the sense of pain. If anything, he became more deliberate, and paused after each complete step to study and map the trail ahead. He was so weak that only his powerful will held him to the half-mile between rests, and to the agonizing effort of resuming his journey after the five minutes' relaxation.

To the life time of the last mile he gave the same thought and care that he devoted to the first. Just at dusk he trudged wearily into the little meadow above the cabin, and his throbbing eyes caught the welcome graybrown of the shake roof. He reached the woodpile, fifteen feet from the cabin door, and calmly eased himself down upon a stump. He scraped the last tobacco into his pipe and lit it with the last match.

Five minutes he rested. Then with that same wonderful patience, he forced his tortured body to the shack. The step that took him across the threshold was just as slow, and just as carefully executed, as each of the thousands that had gone before.

He kindled a fire on the great stone hearth, congratulating himself on having filled the corner with wood and the tin bucket with water. From a box just outside the door he pawed a chunk of frozen venison, which he chopped into small pieces and dropped into a granite-ware pot. Not until his meal was cooking did he stretch out upon the bunk. Later he threw a handful of rice into the pot, and when it was cooked he ate sparingly of the mixture. He was too tired to care about eating, and had to force himself to the necessary effort. He dozed the night away in a maze of dreams in which his crutches carried his burning body over endless trails. Always a red-garbed devil, with a chain on the projecting foot, yanked him forward.

In the morning he ate lightly of broiled venison, and limited himself

to one cup of coffee. He realized the possibility of trouble from his eating, and continually reminded himself that the real fight had just begun.

After breakfast he heated a pail of water, built a padded rest for the broken leg, and carefully removed the bandages and splints. The whole leg was swollen and inflamed. From toes to hip the skin was stretched seemingly to the bursting point. The ceaseless pounding welcomed the thought of a knife-thrust to relieve the drum-like tension. With increasing dread he poked about the break. He found that, although he could run his finger over the shin bone with but slight discomfort, there was in the calf below a gnawing agony that shrank from his slightest touch. It felt as if the muscles must be gripped in monstrous, crushing jaws. He fingered the sore spot cautiously, then transferred his attention to the foot, which persisted in an unnatural outward thrust. Finally he gave up the examination, and for an hour applied hot cloths to the glistening skin.

He lay upon the rude bunk all day, and drove his mind to work above the torture of that insistent pain. Again he went back to his study of anat omy, and tried hard to remember the construction of the lower leg. He knew that there were two bones in his forearm, because he could feel them, and also because he could turn his hand over. It was only after many hours of worrying study of his sound leg, and after many twistings of his foot and wigglings of his toes that the solution came.

"Sure, that's it! They's two bones." He thought the swelling and the pain were caused by his failure to set the broken inner bone, and reasoned that he must attend to it before he could expect relief. So he fortified his nerve with a pot of black coffee, and prepared to undergo the terrible ordeal again. As before, he attached a weight, and hung it over the foot of the bed. Hoping to keep the shin bone in place, he pressed a small piece of wood back of the bone on

each side, and heroically shut a No. 2 steel trap upon the sticks.

He worked upon his iron nerve alone -with only a blind, dogged will to guide the pressure of his hands. Clammy perspiration oozed from his forehead and trickled into his eyes. Impatiently he brushed it away, and begrudged his hands the time that act required. For an eternity he pulled and pressed and twisted, with no apparent result. Always it seemed as if the foot bent farther outward. At last with a desperate wrench he turned the foot strongly inward, and felt the bone slip into its place.

Fainting, he lay back and rested. Driving himself back to his task, he tried to convince his doubting mind that the ends of the inner bone met without having between them any of the muscles or tendons. Although far from satisfied, he at last desisted, with the self-consolation that he had done the best that he could.

He replaced the pads and splints and bound them on. During the afternoon he fell asleep; when he awoke it was morning. He was relieved to find that the swelling had gone down and that the pain was less. He ventured to the spring and to the wood pile. He "brought in" the wood by seating himself and throwing each stick as far as he could; four throws landed it inside the cabin door.

It was the middle of November when Burd Quigley broke his leg, and except to get wood and water, he did not go out until the second week in December. Then the danger of possible famine forced the trapper to strenuous action.

He poked three snowshoes from the rafters, and applied himself to the task of fitting them to his crutches. Across the tops of two of the snowshoes he nailed pieces of board, and to these he fastened the ends of his crutches. Ramming a handful of slugs

into his old muzzle-loading shotgun he made his way out, and climbed through the soft snow. He found snowshoeing less dangerous than walking on bare ground, but no more speedy. In a clump of open timber a mile from the cabin he jumped a bunch of deer and was fortunate in getting a shot at twenty-five feet. He spent the afternoon dragging a hundred pound deer down to camp. The venison answered the food question, and he prepared to remain inside until his leg was well.

At Christmas time he removed the splints, and began to step lightly on the foot as he hobbled about the cabin. He spent many hours kneading, patting and rubbing the sore, flabby muscles.

Soon he began to take easy snowshoe trips about the camp. Then he established a short trap line that grew longer each day, until late in January he ventured out upon the long triangle line that took three days to cover.

From that time he tore savagely into his work, in the hope of making up for lost time. The snowfall was light, and because all his fur was caught late, it was all prime.

Twice during the winter he had a return of the toothache. Each time he became irritable and complaining, and swore lurid oaths of vengeance against the cause of his discomfort.

Late in April he collected and oiled his traps and stored them in the stonewalled cellar under the cabin. With his winter's catch on his back, he swung, limping slightly, down the trail.

At Wade's he stopped.

"Hello, Burd," greeted the old squatter. "How'd you make it?"

"Purty good. All prime. I put in an awful winter, though. I got a rotten tooth that gave me the devil. I'll sure get it pulled out before next winter."

The "Perfect Fool"

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By Ruth Huntoon

Sa Western paragrapher recently and modestly puts it"Bandits may wander around in my neighborhood with absolute safety." When a man is suddenly confronted with the business end of a forty-four, he puts up his hands and his money. That is, he does if he has good sense. The fellow who tries anything else is either making a fool of himself, or the Lord has saved him the trouble.

Now Billy had figured all this out, and when he took the job of express messenger for the Western Pacific he did not hesitate to say so.

"That's all right, Louisdale," old Sam Hood had said. "You're free to do as you see fit when the time comes, but I hope it won't." So Billy had gone his way, his conscience at rest, and had also gone on making as violent love to the girl of his choice as he dared.

Making love to Elsa was almost as hazardous an undertaking as outwitting bandits, to Billy's notion. He was mortally afraid of Elsa's tongue. She had a discouraging way of laughing at him and his ambitions. Billy had been a bit spoiled. He was one of those versatile chaps who can do nearly anything, but nothing well enough to capitalize. A fund of parlor tricks made him popular, but were not remunerative. Rather small, he was close-knit and muscular, and could put up a round of boxing that was the pride of his friends, but which had its limits. He was a good shot, but rarely did more than target practice. Elsa's manner of appreciating him made him feel like a cheap imitation.

"You-the head of a house!" she had laughed with unaffected scorn of his capabilities. "You-the mainstay

of a wife and 'steen small childrenthe backbone of an establishment! Oh, Billy, dear, not you ever!"

Billy rather felt that the 'steen small children was anticipating, but Elsa's point was not to be disputed.

His advance to the position of express messenger from the office was the result of steady plodding and accuracy. The new route was a long and lonely one, and he could only see Elsa twice a week. She had been somewhat surprised that he had taken the promotion because of this, but if she missed the constant worship at her shrine she did not tell. Louisdale was soon on pleasant terms with all the train crew. Conductor Nagel was his especial pet.

As the Express tore her way through Terril County on the night of Billy's thirteenth trip, he was almost glad it was dark. He had left the good cheer and friendly guying over unlucky numbers a long way behind him. To look out upon the barren stretches of the ranch country was even worse company than not to see them. He was thankful for the stop at Dryton. It gave Nagel a chance to flash him a comforting signal that he would be up his way for a visit, soon.

Billy's responsibilities held him fast to his car, and he was more than ordinarily careful to-night because of a package given into his keeping at Gavilon. He was interested in Nagel's message, and Nagel himself was too busy watching for Billy's answering sign to notice the couple who boarded the train in a fashion of their own.

The conductor was puzzled when the Express slowed down again some ten miles out. He started Lee, the porter, ahead to investigate, and sitting un

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