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.