“I’ve got a little flask of whisky,” and Kenton produced it from an inside pocket of his hunting-shirt as he spoke.
“That will do fust-rate, but it’s kinder of a shame to waste good liquor,” said Boone, with a comical grin, as he proceeded to bathe the forehead of the senseless man with the whisky.
In a few moments a low groan came from the lips of Lark. Then a convulsive shudder shook his massive frame.
“He’s coming to,” said Kenton, who was anxiously watching the face of Lark.
“I knew the whisky would fetch him,” Boone remarked.
Lark’s eyes opened slowly, and with a bewildered expression, like one in a maze, he gazed into the faces of the men who knelt by his side.
“What the deuce is the matter with my head?” he muttered.
It was evident that his senses were still in a maze.
“He don’t know you,” said Kenton, in a whisper, to Boone.
“No,” replied the other, in the same guarded tone; “he hain’t fully recovered yet; hain’t got his mind right.”