“I didn't believe he could be saved,” returned the foreman, with a sickly smile, as he grasped Hazelton's outstretched hand.
Tom, too weak at first to stand, had dropped to his knees at the side of the unconscious laborer, over whom some of the bystanders were working in stupid fashion.
“This man must have medical attention at once!” Tom declared. “Some of you men lift him to your shoulders. Be careful not to jolt him, but travel at a jog all the way to the office building. Harry, can you sit on your horse?”
“Surely,” said the young assistant.
“Lucky boy, then,” smiled Reade. “I won't be able to sit in saddle for some minutes. Ride into camp and tell the operator to wire swiftly for a physician to come out and attend to that man.”
“But you—”
“I'm here, am I not!” smiled Reade.
“I should say you are, Mr. Reade!” came a hoarse, friendly roar from one of the laborers.
Hazelton did not delay. He was soon speeding back over the desert.
As for Tom, there were many offers of assistance, but he explained that all he needed was to keep quiet and have a chance to get his breath back.