Tad's form hung limp and lifeless over the saddle. His face, with the sand and dust ground into it, was scarcely recognizable.
Ned followed the foreman as soon as he could get his pony. By the time Ned reached them, Stallings had laid Tad down and was making a quick examination.
"Get water! Hurry!" he commanded sharply.
"Where?" asked Ned, glancing about him, undecided which way to turn.
Ned bounced into his saddle without so much as touching his stirrup. With a sharp yell to the animal he sped away over the plain, urging on the little pony with quirt and spur.
The way Ned Rector rode that day made those of the cowmen who saw him open their eyes.
Ned began shouting for water as soon as he came in sight of the wagon, which, by this time, was packed for the start.
Pong, understanding from the boy's tone that the need was urgent, was filling a jug from the tap barrel by the time Ned rode up beside the wagon. He had less than a minute to wait.
Grabbing the jug from the hands of the grinning Chinaman, and unheeding Pong's chuckled "allee same," Ned whirled about and raced for the herd.
The lad struggled to keep back the tears as he realized that, even with all his haste, it might be too late.
That Tad should come out of that melée of flying hoofs and prodding horns without being at least seriously injured was more than he could hope.
Faster and faster ran the pony, behind him a rising cloud of yellow dust. Ned's fingers were stiff and numb from carrying the heavy jug, and the lump in his throat was growing larger, it seemed to him, with every leap of the animal under him.
Now Ned could see the cowmen galloping in and gazing from their ponies. He knew they were looking at Tad. Stallings was bent over him, pouring something down the boy's throat.
Ned's heart gave a great bound. Tad Butler must be alive or there would be no need for the liquid that the foreman was forcing down his throat.
"Is he--is he----" asked Ned, weakly, after they had taken the jug of water from his hand.
"He's alive, if that's what you mean," answered Stallings. "I'm afraid he's got a slight concussion of the brain. He doesn't come around the way I should like to see him."
"Sure it isn't a fracture!" asked the Professor, who had just arrived on the scene.