Freeing himself from his companions’ clutches, Bob leaped over the up-ended canoe and bent above the recumbent body of the doughty defender.
“Why, he’s badly wounded,” he cried.
Mr. Hampton pushed him aside.
“Here, let me look, Bob,” he said. “You fellows help Farnum and Art in looking after the others. The place is a shambles, with wounded men everywhere.”
CHAPTER XXII.—OUTWARD BOUND.
It was a week before the wounded could be moved. At close range though the fight had been, none had been killed. When the boys exclaimed in amazement at this, Art shrugged his shoulders.
“More bullets fly in a fight than ever reach their mark,” he said. “I’ve seen men, tough fellows, regular two-gun men, shoot at each other in Alaskan saloons in the old days without anybody being killed. When a man sees red, he don’t take no good aim.”
The majority of the wounded were not hit in vital spots, but Thorwaldsson had been shot in so many places that his recovery at first was a matter of doubt. It was he who had been the last of his party to keep firing, he whom Bob had rescued in the nick of time.
From Farrell and others of Thorwaldsson’s five companions, however, the story of what had occurred had been obtained. They had been on their way down the Coppermine when they, too, had been overtaken in the fog. They had landed in the little beach to wait for the fog to lift. There the half-breeds, survivor’s of Lupo’s gang, who had been dogging the trail of Mr. Hampton and his party, had come upon them.
The surprise had been mutual, for the half-breeds had been looking for the Hampton party and not for Thorwaldsson. However, they had attacked, the majority from the canoes, and three who had been scouting along shore, from the land. Surprised thus, Thorwaldsson’s party had put up a game fight, but one after the other had been shot down until only the leader was left. He, barricaded behind the canoes, had held off the rest of the attackers until the final rush and Bob’s timely arrival.