“Shot him?” repeated the other girls.
“That was why he made me drive old Dobbin this morning,” said Amy.
“And to think he never told,” broke in Maggie, “and he’s gone off now, goodness only knows where.”
“And he didn’t tell you about the attack and how he saved us?” demanded Billie.
“Not a word.”
Billie gave them an account of what had happened the evening before. It was exciting enough to tell about and the girls listened breathlessly. Richard’s courage and tact with the outlaws when all the time his sleeve was soaked with blood from the wound in his arm, fired her with unusual eloquence.
“I don’t think they intended to harm any of us,” she finished. “It was Phoebe they wanted, and her father, who is hiding somewhere on the mountain. But we shall be thankful to him all our lives for what he did. Why didn’t he tell you?”
“It’s too like him,” said Maggie. “I don’t know whether it’s modesty or indifference, but he never, never tells stories where he figures as a hero.”
“Do you wish us to stop here now after so much excitement?” Amy asked. “I don’t think it’s any time for outsiders to intrude in spite of Maggie’s rhymes about Gypsy blood and brothers of the road.”
“Indeed, we wouldn’t think of letting you go,” cried Billie hospitably. “You are not strangers to us, I assure you, after all your kindness. But I do wish I could find your brother. The place on his arm bled a lot last night. I am certain a wound like that should be washed and dressed every few hours. Do you think he could have gone very far away?”