“White dog get up!” ordered the Indian, darkly. “Sleep heap too much.”
“I’ll get up if I can,” answered Dave, and did his best to pull himself together. It was hard work and as he stood on his feet his head spun around and around. He clutched at the tree behind him and sank down again.
The Indian muttered something under his breath and went back to his companions. Probably he thought the young soldier was going to die and he wanted to know if he had not better scalp Dave then and there and leave him where he fell.
But now a shouting was heard at a distance, and presently a dozen or more Indians came rushing into the camp, followed by twice that number of French soldiers. They had found a body of English grenadiers in the woods half a mile back of the river,—soldiers who had failed to get back to the main army.
Here was a fresh quarry for the bloodthirsty red men, and forgetting about Dave and the wounded grenadier beside him, they took up their arms and made off, the French soldiers with them.
“Gone!” muttered the young soldier, when the last of the enemy had vanished from the glade. “If only they don’t come back!”
“Come back?” came from the grenadier, wildly. “They must come back! They mustn’t let poor Peter Chanter die like this. Take me ’ome, boys! No more of the King’s shilling for me! Take me ’ome!” And he continued to rave, being now out of his head for the want of care and nourishment.
The day was one Dave never forgot. A storm was at hand and the breeze swept mournfully through the giant trees and through the dense brushwood. The birds, frightened by the fierce shooting of the day before, had flown, and the wild animals had likewise taken themselves off. From a great distance came an occasional shot.
Crawling on hands and knees, Dave took his way to the edge of the river and at the risk of plunging in, procured a drink and bathed his aching head. All the while the wounded grenadier kept moaning and talking wildly, and crying for a drink. With a great effort the young soldier filled his cup for him and he drained it with strange gulpings.
“Thank you, Bob!” he murmured. “Thank ye, old boy. When we gits ’ome, I’ll make it right with yer, Bob.” And then he sank back as if to sleep. He never stirred afterward.