“Dennis! Dennis, are you hurt, lad?”
The ex-trackman groaned.
“Why—is it so? That’s bad, indeed! Where are you wounded? Did I shoot you, or that creature spring upon you?”
“Och! I’m dead. I’m dead, entirely.”
“Guess not. Try to get up. Why, what’s the matter here, with your arm? This is no beast-scratch.”
Both at once, the twins rapidly told their story and, by his own wit, the newcomer learned the main facts. He was very sorry for Dennis but felt that the Irishman’s present collapse was due to fear and disappointment, rather than approaching death. He remembered that among the traits of his old employee was a fondness for good food, so urged:
“Come on, my fine fellow. The mistress is cooking such a supper yonder, in our little camp, as will put new life into your ‘dead’ limbs—instanter! Brook trout—broiled on wood coals; fresh biscuits; wild honey that Jack found in a tree; with cresses from the same stream that furnished the trout. How’s that? Come. Get up. I’ll help you. What a beautiful horse! Both burros yours? Ah! I recall—the Pueblos. Well, I must go. Letitia will be anxious. Every time any of us move, now, she fears we’re going forever. Come to supper, Dennis?”
“Yes, I know, I know. Thanky, but—I couldn’t. No, I couldn’t.”
“Very well. Suit yourself. I’ll lead your donkey forward and you follow when you choose.”
Carlota was distressed and looked anxiously into Mr. Burnham’s face; then caught a twinkle in his eye which belied his apparent indifference.