“My Lord, professor, I’ve been runnin’ these hills like a rabid kit fox, lookin’ for you!” he panted, laying both hands on Abington’s shoulders and giving him an affectionate shake or two. “Why, you old vinegarroon, I’ve been scared to look off a cliff or into a pot hole for fear I’d see a coyote sneakin’ away from your ornery carcass! Thought sure that gosh-awful thing had got you!” He stopped to breathe. “Who was doing that shootin’? You?”
Abington nodded, a bit surprised at the lump in his throat which prevented speech.
“Shootin’ at the gosh-awful? You git it?” Bill’s voice dropped to a vengeful whisper as he sent a wholly involuntary glance behind him.
“No, Bill, I didn’t. Some one down here took a shot at me and I shot back. He’s lying over here by the cliff.”
“Yeah?” Astonishment pulled Bill’s hand off the other’s shoulder. “Who do you reckon— Was it an officer?” An indefinable change had crept into his voice.
“No, I don’t think so. He isn’t dead yet. Come over and take a look. We’ll have to do something—get him into a shelter of some kind. These nights are too chilly for a wounded man to lie out unprotected.”
Once more Abington was calm and cool and efficient. He turned and led the way back to the wounded man, Bill Jonathan following at his heels quite as if there had been neither quarrel nor separation to jar them out of the routine of the trail.
CHAPTER XII
THE MAN WHO VANISHED
Bill got up off his knees, glanced this way and that as though looking for something of which he stood in urgent need, and turned a bleak gaze again upon the huddled figure on the ground.
“We better get a fire started,” he said to Abington, unconsciously taking the initiative as if this was his own particular affair and he alone must acquit himself well in the emergency. “I’ll scout around with the light. Maybe I can find a cave—his camp, if it’s down in here. Don’t suppose he’ll jar loose any information—”