Harvey did not answer, and they were both busy so that the girl did not seem to note his lapse. Harvey, wise in the ways of mining and in the customs and manners of the land, did not want to identify them in any way with the news that must soon come out about the cloudburst and the dead Apaches. Like every old-time prospector, he hated publicity, and in this case saw no good that could possibly come of it, but only vexation, delay, the possibility of being detained as government witnesses, and of rumour bringing other prospectors on their trail. Harvey had the Desert Rat's horror of restraint of any kind. Rather than serve on a jury he would have journeyed fifty miles across Death Valley, and he felt the same way about giving any degree of evidence, save to help out a friend or someone he believed unjustly accused. They must make up some story to give the doctor, he decided.
He and the girl got Healy into the tonneau and wedged him up between Stone and Larkin who were finally able to crawl into the car with a little elbow assistance. Healy's eyes were wide open and glassy with fever but, aside from that, he was still in the coma, insensible, unable to move.
"We'll have his arm looked into inside of half an hour," she said. "It's just about seven miles to camp. Soup and a drink of whisky apiece for you two. I don't imagine the doc 'll let you have much to eat. And you must be starving also." She turned to Harvey.
"Don't you worry none about me," he said. "The
