“There it is on the back of his head,” Joe cried, holding the torch so that his companions might see.
“The bullet has not shattered the bones,” Ira said a moment later. “It was a glancing shot. He is only stunned. Bring some water, Late.”
They bathed the prisoner’s temples; forced liquid between his lips; washed and bandaged the wound. When this had been done the man opened his eyes, and, looking up into their faces, smiled faintly.
“I didn’t make it,” he said feebly.
“Hardly,” Late replied. “I’m sorry I had to do it; but you shouldn’t have tried to run away.”
“I’m not blaming you,” he answered. “You’re of the right stuff even if you are a rebel. But I ought to have known as much. Your leader don’t select any other kind of men to help him.”
After a short time he sank into a troubled sleep, and, leaving Joe to watch him, Ira and Late also laid down. A few hours later the former changed places with the watcher, and thus the night passed. At dawn the wounded man showed signs of fever, and was unable to walk.
“What shall we do?” Late asked.
“Make a litter and carry him,” Ira replied. “He must be taken where he’ll have better care than we can give him here.”
Late and Joe hurried off to get material for a stretcher; but a moment later the latter came hurriedly back.