“Where are you hurt?” he asked gently. “Which way did the shot come?”
“It was the gun,” moaned Jeanne, feebly finding herself able to talk. “It went off at the wrong end.”
“Well, by George,” cried the Captain bursting into a laugh, “we’re nicely fooled, boys. The girl isn’t shot. She fired the gun herself. The musket kicked. That’s all. Now you girls go to bed,” he ordered sternly, “and let’s have no more nonsense.”
“But Dick,” said Jeanne, getting upon her feet. “You haven’t caught Dick, have you?”
“If you mean the fellow that left with the Colonel’s son, no,” answered the Captain. “We can’t spare the men to give chase, but there will be a reckoning for somebody when Colonel Peyton gets back. Now go to bed. You’ll let us keep the rest of our prisoners, I reckon,” he added with sarcasm.
“Oh, yes,” said Bob, laughing a little hysterically. “It was just our brothers that we were after.”
“Better go to the surgeon and get something for that shoulder,” called the Captain as they started off. “It’s liable to be pretty lame for a few days.”
Bob profited by his advice and sought the surgeon who gave her some liniment to rub on it, but the morning found it still so lame that Jeanne retained her bed.
On the morning of the third day the Colonel and his men returned, worn and jaded looking. There were no prisoners, and from the spiritless condition of the soldiers it looked as though they had been on a fruitless enterprise.
“And if that is the case,” remarked Bob to Jeanne, “dad will be in an awful humor, and we’ll catch it.”