"It isn't out, but it's past," said Jed.
"Well, it mighty near got me," he groaned. "It corralled me on that ridge. If I hadn't cached myself in that little canyon, I'd have been burned to a crisp. It burned my hoss, I reckon. He jerked loose from me and left me to go it alone with my wounded leg. Water! Ain't there a creek ahead? Gimme some water."
While he was mumbling we set him down, beyond the fire line. It didn't seem as though we could get him any further. Kit hustled for water, Jed skipped to get first-aid stuff from a blanket-roll, and I made an examination.
His face and hands were blistered—maybe his eyes were scorched—there was a bloody place wrapped about with a dirty red handkerchief, on the calf of his left leg. But I couldn't do much until I had scissors or a sharp knife, and water.
"Who are you kids?" he asked. "Fishin'?" He was lying with his eyes closed.
"No. We're some Boy Scouts."
He didn't seem to like this. "Great Scott!" he complained. "Ain't there nobody but Boy Scouts in these mountains?"
Just then Kit came back with a hat of water from a boggy place. It was muddy water, but it looked wet and good, and the man gulped it down, except what I used to soak our handkerchiefs in. Kit went for more. Jed arrived with first-aid stuff, and I set to work, Jed helping.
We let the man wipe his own face, while we cut open his shirt where it had stuck to the flesh.
"Here!" he said suddenly. "Quit that. What's the matter with you?"