“Ram Dad’s got him here, eating grass.”
“Then where’s the enemy?”
“Where’s last night’s dew?” replied Wyatt. “They’ve scattered and got into the mountains after all. We couldn’t stop them though.”
“Oh,” groaned Dick, who was holding his hand to his head. “But tell me who’s hurt.”
“The enemy—awfully.”
“I mean, of our men.”
“Poor Rob Hanson. The Wazir cut him down.”
“Oh!” cried Dick, rising up again into a sitting position. “Poor Rob Hanson! But not dangerously?”
“Robson is afraid so.”
“Where is he?”