The back door was open, a flood of smoke pouring from it. And as he stared stupidly at it, he saw a nebulous figure struggling through it.
The sight brought his senses back, brought his strength back. He sprang forward, and in another moment, he and Mamie, between them, had dragged Allan West out into the open air, bleeding, bound, unconscious.
“What they been doin’ to the boy?” cried Jack, a white-hot rage almost choking him. “Have they kilt him—have the cowards kilt him?”
“Oh, no; oh, no!” sobbed Mamie, dropping on her knees beside him. “Oh, look, dad, they’ve tied his hands and feet.”
“The scoundrels!” and Jack, whipping out his knife, had the bonds severed in an instant. “His head’s all bloody,” he added, “an’ look how that rope’s cut his wrists! Good God! What kind o’ fiends—”
But Mamie, with more self-control than he, laid a restraining hand upon his arm.
“Don’t, dad,” she said. “Don’t think of that now. Time enough afterwards.”
“You’re right,” and Jack mastered himself by a mighty effort.
“We must get some water,” said Mamie, and then as she looked down at the white, bruised, unconscious face, a wave of misery swept over her, a suffocating sense of her own helplessness. “We must do something!” she cried wringing her hands in anguish. “We must—oh!—”
She stopped suddenly, and pressed her hands against her wildly-beating heart, for Allan’s eyes slowly unclosed and he lay looking up at her. Then his face brightened into a smile, and an instant later twitched with the agony the slight movement cost him. His eyes were caught by the cloud of smoke drifting upward from the house, and his expression changed from agony to horror.