They hastened toward him, Avery in the lead and Swickey, carbine in hand, following.
“Wal, if it ain’t Joe Smeaton—and busted. What’s the matter, Joe?”
“Leg’s bruk. Fell offen the log.”
Avery glanced at the log and then at the bag beneath Smeaton’s head.
“Trappin’?” he asked quietly.
Smeaton endeavored to grin, but the pain twisted his mouth to a groan.
“Why, Pop, he’s hurt!” exclaimed Swickey.
“Co-rect, Miss—I be.”
Avery knelt by the prostrate figure. “I’d have suthin’ to say to you if she wa’n’t here; howcome you’re busted and Hoss Avery ain’t jumpin’ on no feller when he’s down. You’re comin’ to my camp and git fixed up.”
“Swickey,” he said, turning to the girl, who stood watching them, “you know where my shack is down shore. Wal, they’s a hand-sleigh thar. You git it. We’re a-goin’ to need it.”