“I do’ no’s I’m hurt in none of my limbs,” was the cautious reply, “but I’m covered with bruises, and I’m pinned fast. I couldn’t ’a’ got away if I hadn’t been, for that brute was determined to have my life. Turn about’s fair play; we’ll see how he comes out after this!”
Clearly, the victim’s temper had not been improved by the night’s adventures, and it was easy to see that he had made almost no effort at all to escape from a position which, although certainly uncomfortable, had the great advantage of keeping the dog at bay. I thought of the Land Office in Fairplay and of the business that was probably being transacted there at that moment, and resolved to give Guard the whole of the roast that was left over from yesterday’s dinner when we reached home again.
“Ain’t you even goin’ to try to help me? Goin’ to let me lay here an’ die?” demanded the angry voice from under the ruins.
“Oh, no, certainly not. I’ll try to help you out. I guess you’ve been here long enough,” I replied, cheerfully.
“Huh! I should think I had been here long enough. This night’s work’ll prob’ly cost me thousands of dollars—but I’ll have that whelp’s life when I do git out; that’s one comfort.”
For a wicked instant I was tempted to turn away and leave our unrepentant enemy where he was. The impulse passed as quickly as it came, but I am not ashamed to confess that before setting to work to try to extricate the prisoner I threw my arms around Guard’s neck and hugged him ecstatically. “It’s all right; we’re safe!” I whispered in his ear, as if he could understand me—and I am not sure to this day that he could not. Then I began tugging away at the rotten pieces of wood that, fallen in a heap, formed a rough sort of wickiup, under which Mr. Horton reclined at length. It was a pretty hard task, for some of the timbers were heavy enough to tax all my strength; but an opening was made at last, and through it Mr. Horton slowly crawled into the light. He was compelled to advance backward, after the manner of the crawfish, and as he finally got clear of the ruins and staggered to his feet, he was a most disreputable-looking figure. Apart from a good many scratches and bruises, he did not seem to be injured in the least. The timbers had fallen in such a way that their weight did not rest on him. His scowling face, as he turned it to the light, was further disfigured by several long scratches and by a dry coating of blood and dirt. His coat—the coat, again—was torn, his hat gone, and his bushy iron-gray hair stood fiercely upright. The change from the semi-darkness of his place of imprisonment to the full light of day partially blinded him, and he stood, blinking and winking for a full minute after getting on his feet; then he apprehensively examined his arms and legs.
“I reckon there ain’t none of ’em broken,” he said at last, grudgingly. “But it’s no thanks to that dog of your’n that I ain’t chawed into mince-meat—confound you!”—this to Guard, who was sniffing inquiringly at the legs of his late quarry. The words were further emphasized by a vicious kick, which, missing its intended victim, did astounding execution on something else.
We were standing, at the moment, on a drift of leaves that had lain inside the hut. Mr. Horton’s vigorous kick sent a shower of these leaves flying in all directions, and disclosed, half hidden beneath them, a large, square, leather-bound volume, on which my eyes rested in amazed recognition, while Guard, with a bark of delight, took his station beside it, wagging his tail joyfully.
I looked at Mr. Horton, whose face, under its mask of blood and dirt, had turned the color of gray ashes. He began to back slowly away toward his horse.
“Wait!” I cried; “I want you to tell me—you must tell me, Mr. Horton, what you were doing last night. How came Jessie’s dictionary here?”