“I don’t know ’em.”
“They are a bad set. But come, help me with Frank. You can’t do anything with that hay. It’s all smoked through, and the cattle won’t touch it.”
“Thet’s so. Where shall we take him?”
“How far is your house?”
“Jess tudder side o’ thet hill.”
“Then we might as well take him there,” said Bob.
The three raised up the limp body, and carried it to the farmer’s house. Half a dozen neighbors, who had been attracted by the blaze, came up and followed.
Ruel Dalmer—that was the son’s name—set off for the nearest doctor on his buckboard, and it was not long before a physician arrived.
Just before he entered, Bob, who was standing over Frank, doing all in his power to make the young man comfortable, had the satisfaction of seeing the blood-shot eyes open and heard a faint gasp.
“Thank fortune, he’s coming around,” murmured the youth. “His injuries are much worse than mine.”