We both ceased running. I was compelled to clutch the limb of a tree to hold myself upright. The spark ahead of us was now grown to a ball of fire, giving off a vaporous sheen. Still it kept on, and the runner in front slowed to a walk: Lafe was as little accustomed to this exercise as we were. Then I perceived that Jack-o'-Lantern had come to a stop. He flashed above a tree, dipped downward, poised in midair.
"Hal-loo," came a cry from Johnson. "Here I am. Hurry! Hurry!"
"Let's try again," Bob gasped, and we forced our cramped limbs into a run.
Lafe was bending over a white object that lay huddled at the base of a tree.
"It's her," said he, as we arrived.
Hetty was unconscious, and had her head pillowed in the crook of one arm. Often so had Lafe seen her lying asleep, on tiptoeing into the room when returned from distant parts of the range.
"Here," Bob grunted. "Give me her legs. Help with the shoulders, Dan."
"I'll take 'em myself," Lafe said fiercely.
We lifted her very slowly and tenderly, and started back. Twice were we obliged to set our burden down and rest, but we managed to carry her back to the house. As we were placing her on the bed, Hetty revived and opened her eyes.
"Get away," she said fretfully to her husband. "You're always smelling of that tobacco. Get away. You make me tired."