“There’s the Bates party, I’ll wager,” rapped Mr. Corwith; and all dashed forward.
General Dodge and Major Dunn had forged ahead, but Terry, wild with fears, pelted close after. The horses’ hoofs rang on the rocks, and thudded in the reddish sand and gravel.
The slowly toiling figures were down, flat, as if exhausted; one struggled to get up, staggered blindly, and fell again. The general arrived first, was off his horse in a jiffy, to kneel and raise the figure against him. He quickly unsnapped his canteen, and poured from it and dabbled with his handkerchief.
“To the next, major,” he ordered. “I’ll take care of this one.”
But with a cry Terry stopped short, and tumbled off. The figure against the general’s knees was George Stanton!
Yes, George Stanton—and his own mother scarcely would have recognized him. However, Terry knew George; a fellow learns not to be mistaken in his brother or his chum.
“That’s George Stanton, general!” he gasped. “That’s my pardner—the boy I’ve talked about. Is he dead? George! Hello, George!”
“No, not dead; but pretty near gone, from thirst. This must be the Bates party, then. You tend to him—keep his face and mouth wet, but don’t give him too much water, at once. He’ll be all right, soon. I’ll pass along to the others.”
Terry took charge—holding George tenderly, shoulders up, off the hard rock and hot sand, and sopping his face and dribbling into his half open mouth.
Once, George had been a wiry, snappy, black-eyed package of nerve; now he was wasted to a framework of bones, his skin was drawn tight and parched, his lips were shrunken apart and his tongue, black and stiff, almost filled the space between.