"Can't you give Boxer a little?" asked the dog's master. "He's suffering as much as I am."
Frank quickly removed from his saddle-bags a deep tin plate, on which some of the water was poured, and[Pg 169] this the dog greedily licked up, wagging his tail in thankfulness.
"Poor old Boxer!" sighed the doomed man.
"Now, sir," said the youth, "let me examine your wound and find out what I can do for you."
"No use," was the declaration. "I'm done for. It's through the lung, and I've bled enough to finish two men. The blood is all out of me."
But the young man insisted on looking and did what he could to check the flow of blood.
The doomed man shook his head a little.
"No use," he repeated. "I'm going now—I feel it. But you have done all you could for Old Bens, and you won't lose nothing by it. What's your name?"
"Frank Merriwell."
"Well, Pard Merriwell, you sure went for those red devils right hot. I allowed at first that you must have four or five friends with ye."