She needed no telling what to do. John had swung the bull away from Evered; he had the creature blinded. She bent beside the prostrate man and tried to drag him to his feet, but Evered bent weakly in the middle. He was conscious, he looked up at her, his face quite calm and happy; and he shook his head. He said, “Go.”
The girl caught him beneath the shoulders and tried to drag him backward through the soft snow across the pen. It was hard work. John still blinding the bull, still calling out to the beast, was working it away from her.
She could not call on him for help; she turned and cried to Darrin, “Help me—carry him.”
Darrin came cautiously into the pen and approached her and took her arm. “Come away,” he said.
Her eyes blazed at him; and she cried again, “Carry him out.”
He said huskily, “Leave him. Leave him here. Come away.”
She had never released Evered’s shoulders, never ceased to tug at him. But Darrin took her arm now as though to pull her away; and she swung toward him so fiercely that he fell back from her. The girl began abruptly to cry; half with anger at Darrin, half with pity for the broken man in her arms. And she tugged and tugged, sliding the limp body inch by inch toward safety.
Then she saw John beside her. He had guided the bull, half forcing, half persuading, to the entrance into the stall; he had worked the creature in, prodding it, urging; and shut and made secure the door. Now he was at her side. He knelt with her.
“He’s terribly hurt,” she said through her tears.
John nodded. “I’ll take him,” he told her.