A few days after this talk Dave called again upon Barringford. He found the old frontiersman conscious, but somewhat out of his head, the effect of the bullet wound. Barringford did not know him at first.
“Seems to me I know ye,” he said slowly. “But it’s beyond me—a long way off. Air ye Henry, or Dave, or thet Jameson boy?”
“I’m Dave, Sam. Don’t you know me?”
“Dave, eh?” The sufferer took the hand held out to him. “All right, Dave, ef it’s you. But why did ye shoot me in the head? I thought better o’ you than thet, yes, I did!”
“I didn’t shoot you, Sam; it was a Frenchman did that, and I laid the Frenchman low for it.”
“Did ye? Queer, I should think you shot me.” Barringford tried to collect his thoughts, but failed. “Mighty bad place this,” he went on. “Folks shoving me all day an’ all night, an’ tryin’ to drive wooden pins into my head.” And then he sank back and dozed off.
“Will he remain this way?” asked Dave of the surgeon, his heart fairly aching for his old friend.
The surgeon shrugged his shoulders. “Let us hope not, my lad.”
“But they do sometimes, is that what you mean?” questioned the young soldier quickly.
“I am sorry to say that is true. You see, the bullet grazed the brain. If he recovers it will be very slowly.”