“I guess I’m hit pretty bad,” the corporal revived and whispered. Toma had thrown up the sled as a sort of barricade, if any more shots were fired, and Dick and Sandy commenced administering first aid to the wounded policeman. The bullet had struck under the shoulder blade at the back, and had come out the right side.
“It’s a nasty wound,” Dick said grimly—“maybe a lung is touched.”
“Rather lucky for you fellows at that,” the corporal smiled gamely. “Now you can use my dog team to tote me back to the fort.”
“Do you have any idea who shot you?” Dick asked.
“One of Henderson’s men without a doubt,” was the faint reply, “the country’s alive with them. But we’ll beat ’em yet.”
Dick grimly agreed with him.
Strangely enough, no more shots were fired. Dick judged the reason for this was that a single man had attacked them and had lost courage after seeing he had drawn blood in a party too strong for him. Yet he could not be sure. At any moment they might expect the sharpshooter lurking in the wooded hills to drop one of them. If they were to move on to the fort they could not remain sheltered from attack.
The limp body of the corporal was speedily transferred to his sled, after some of the packs had been thrown aside. Dick picked up the gee-pole, Toma took the lead, and Sandy cracked the long whip.
“Mush!”
They were off, the dogs yelping eagerly down the back trail, overjoyed at hitting the home trail so soon.