"They laid hands on you!" he cried. "On you! And I wasn't here! Tell me. No, no, I'm all right. Tell me!"
She told him, seeing his face set and grow rigid. He groaned.
"They stretched a rope between two trees, and I rode into it. The fall almost knocked me out, and they finished the job. They roped me up. It took me a long time to get loose." He held out his wrists, stripped of skin to the raw flesh. "I was afraid of some devil's work, but——" He broke off, shaking his head, and put his hand to his left side. When he removed it his finger tips were stained.
"Oh, you are hurt—twice!" Faith cried.
"I don't think this is much." He stripped himself to the waist. The lamplight revealed a red furrow lying along his ribs, but though it bled freely the skin was little more than broken. To Faith's pleading to lie down he shook his head. On his instructions she brought an old sheet which he ripped into a long bandage. "That was Blake's first shot," he said as he replaced his garments. "He'll have to do better shooting than that—next time."
"Next time?" she exclaimed.
He did not reply, but going into the hall came back with a rifle in one hand and his gun belt in the other.
"Old girl, please rustle me some grub—cold meat and bread—and put it in an old sugar sack."
"But Angus, what are you going to do?"
"To do? I am going after Blake French and Garland, of course."