“You got that rope around Darrel just in the nick of time, Chip!” said the admiring Ballard. “If you had been a second later, Darrel would have brought both of you down in a heap. Gee, man, but it was a close call!”
“A miss is as good as a mile, Pink,” answered Merry.
Clancy arrived with the water and allowed it to trickle over the white, haggard face of the unconscious lad. Darrel’s eyes flickered open, and a haunting expression of pain was in them as they rested on his friends. He ground his teeth to stifle a groan.
“Are you badly hurt, Darrel?” queried Frank.
“My—my left arm,” panted Darrel, “it’s broken, I think.”
With a muttered exclamation, Frank threw himself to his knees close beside Darrel. As he lifted him by the shoulders, the left arm swung limply and a moan was wrenched from Darrel’s lips.
“The arm is broken,” said Frank, “there’s no doubt about that. Clan,” he added, “go to the camp for our mounts. You needn’t bring a horse for Darrel—he can ride behind me on Borak.”
“Going to take him to Ophir?” asked Clancy, bounding to his feet and starting up the cañon.
“No, to Dolliver’s. Hustle, old man!”
Clancy disappeared up the narrow trail at a keen run.