Suddenly Gilbert saw the Irishman throw up both hands and clutch at the air. His heart almost stopped beating, for he knew that such a movement could mean but one thing—that Casey had been wounded. Then he saw the Irishman pitch headlong into the stream and disappear.
“Dan,” he called, and at that moment he realized how much he thought of this comrade of so many fights. He plunged forward and felt around in the stream. Bullets were whistling all around him, but to these he just then paid no attention. If Casey was still alive, he felt he must do all in his power to save him from drowning.
At last he got hold of the Irish sharpshooter, and with a strong effort he raised his wounded comrade from the water. The poor fellow was breathing heavily and spluttering.
“Where are you hit, Dan?” he asked quickly.
“In th—the side. Oh!” And then Casey closed his eyes and went off into a faint.
For the moment Gilbert did not know what to do; the next he had his comrade of many fights over his shoulder, and was rushing forward as fast as before. Luckily the shore was not far away, and in a few minutes he gained the shelter of some brushwood, just as Carl Stummer came after him.
“Vat’s der madder mit Tan?”
“He is wounded, Carl. Come, let us see if we can’t do something for him.”
An examination revealed the fact that Casey had received a bullet through his right side. Gilbert was no surgeon, but experience told him that while the hurt was bad enough it would probably not be fatal. He tore off the sleeve of his shirt for a bandage, and bound up the wound as well as his limited means permitted, Stummer assisting.
“Can you look after him now, Carl? I must rejoin my company, I suppose.”