Bruce had just come from the village, whither he had gone to make inquiry concerning Hammond’s condition.
“Yes,” he answered, as they walked together toward the cottage. “They extracted it this morning. It struck a rib, and the wound isn’t as bad as it might be. He’ll be laid up for a time, they say. There is no question but that he’ll get well.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” was Frank’s sincere rejoinder. “I thought he was a goner when I saw him drop near me at the crack of that gun.”
“Hello! what’s this?” Bruce exclaimed, a moment later, as they entered his room.
He stepped quickly to the little table, and took up a bunch of flowers, to which was tied a note, oddly scrawled and spelled.
It was from Nell Thornton, and this is what it said:
“I am ergoin’ ter slip in an’ put these on yer table, ’ca’se I hav’ heern that grand folks like ’em, an’ leeve this letter ’bout dad, ’ca’se I thot mebbe ez how you uns would want ter knowl. He hez knocked a hole in his ole still, an’ is ergoin’ ter leeve these mountings, he sez, an’ try ter be ’spectable. So good-by. I node frum the fust thet you warnt no revnoo.
“Frum your fr’end furever,
“Nell Thornton.”
“She’s an all-right girl,” said Bruce, after a pause, “even if she is rather awkward.”
“Bedad, we had better be gittin’ out av the mountains before some more shootin’ takes place,” put in Barney.
“That’s right,” came from Harry. “One shot like that is enough.”