“I don’t believe I’m shot so bad, after all,” mused Ned, easing himself by settling back upon his heels. “It doesn’t hurt a bit.”
“But you are! I’m afraid you are!” moaned Tom, pitifully. “And it’s all my fault, though I don’t see how it ever happened.”
From the appearance of that back it seemed to Tom that the whole load must have entered Ned’s shoulder.
“Isn’t any one in sight to help us?” queried Ned.
“Not a soul,” said Tom, with a quaver of despair in his voice. “Shall I fix you as good as I can, and then run like lightning and get a wagon, or something?”
“I bet I could walk as far as the road,” asserted Ned, pondering. “That would be a better place to leave me, for people are more apt to come along there, you know.”
“But I hate to have you walk, Ned,” said Tom. “It might not be right for you.”
Nevertheless he took Ned’s hand and helped him get on his feet—which was done with no apparent harm.
“I don’t need to be held up,” objected Ned, as Tom started to put an arm around his waist, and lead him off. “You carry the guns. You weren’t going to forget them, were you?”
Tom raised Ned’s gun from the spot where it had dropped when Ned himself had dropped, and then gave his own, lying where he had flung it, a kick.