“Mr. Who?” said Amy, staring at the rafters.
“The owner of this cabin—the man who helped us—caught up his gun, and, calling us to follow, ran like lightning down the trail. At first we followed blindly, and unknowingly, for we could only see the struggling horses, who, however, seemed to be ALONE, and the wagon from which you did not seem to have stirred. Then, for the first time, my dear child, we suddenly saw your danger. Imagine how we felt as that hideous brute rose up in the road and began attacking the wagon. We called on Tenbrook to fire, but for some inconceivable reason he did not, although he still kept running at the top of his speed. Then we heard you shriek—”
“I didn't shriek, papa; it was the horses.”
“My child, I knew your voice.”
“Well, it was only a VERY LITTLE scream—because I had tumbled.” The color was coming back rapidly to her pink cheeks.
“And, then, at your scream, Tenbrook fired!—it was a wonderful shot for the distance, so everybody says—and killed the bear, though Tenbrook says it oughtn't to. I believe he wanted to capture the creature alive. They've queer notions, those hunters. And then, as you were unconscious, he brought you up here.”
“WHO brought me?”
“Tenbrook; he's as strong as a horse. Slung you up on his shoulders like a feather pillow.”
“Oh!”
“And then, as the wagon required some repairing from the brute's attack, we concluded to take it leisurely, and let you rest here for a while.”