Dallas’s brain was in a whirl, but he was able to act sensibly under the circumstances. He caught up rugs and blankets, and covered the sufferer warmly. Then, going to the open door, he dragged in the sledge, and closed and secured the entrance after a fashion.
His next effort was to get a good fire blazing to alter the temperature of the hut; and when this was done he went to the spirit-flask kept on the shelf for emergencies, and trickled a few drops between the poor fellow’s lips.
As he worked at this he tried hard to puzzle out what had happened.
His first thoughts had been in the direction of attack and robbery. But there was the fastened door. It was not likely that Abel, after being half strangled and hurled down, could have fastened up the door again from the inside; he would sooner have left it open in the hope of one of their neighbours passing by and rendering help. And yet there was the bed dragged away, the board removed, and the earth torn up.
He crossed to the place.
There was no doubt about it; the object of the attack must have been robbery, for the bag of gold was gone.
He held his hand to his brow and stared about wildly.
Ah! A fresh thought. The dog! Hungry! Mad! It must have attacked and seized Abel by the throat. That would account for its lacerated state and the terrible struggle.
There was evidence, too, just across the hut—a hole had been half dug, half torn through the side, just big enough for such a dog to get through, and it had, after nearly killing him who had saved the brute’s life, torn a way out, partly beneath the side.
“Oh, Bel, lad, if you could only speak!” groaned Dallas, as he took up the lamp, felt how cold the poor fellow was, and, setting the lamp down again, stooped to pick up a skin rug tossed into the corner by the head of the bed.