Fred Godfrey would have been the last to rejoin his friends had he not been seized with a dread that something might go wrong with those who were left defenseless.
He therefore hastened, and in the gray light of the morning came upon a scene of sadness.
Richard Brainerd, his step-father, lay on his back, with his head in the lap of Maggie, while Eva was weeping over him, and Aunt Peggy was standing beside them, her face streaming with tears.
Gravity Gimp was rolling on the ground in an agony of sorrow, for he saw what was apparent to the young man—the loved father and master was dying.
Fred knelt by his side, and taking a whisky flask from the rough but kind-hearted Dick Durkee, pressed it to the white lips of the sufferer.
"It's no use, Fred," said he, with a sad smile; "I'm done for. Jake Golcher fired that shot, but he meant it for Maggie, and not for me. I'm close to death."
"I hope it isn't as bad as that," said Fred, through his tears, his manner showing he could not believe his own words.
"It's as well that I should go," said the old man, rallying slightly; "and I'm thankful that the rest of you escaped. Good-bye, Fred."
The youth took the hand that was already growing clammy and limp, and, returning the pressure, could only murmur:
"Good-bye, good bye; would that it had been I, rather than such a noble father as you have always been to me."