Tavia stumbled to her feet and, with a hand before her eyes to ward off the twigs and branches that lashed at her face, fought her way back along the trail toward a spot where they had passed a mountain brook.
She knelt beside the stream, saturated the handkerchief with the almost ice-cold water, and returned to Dorothy. Several times she made the trip, until she was bruised and torn and panting.
Finally she had her reward. The blood ceased to flow and, washing away the last traces of it, Tavia was able to inspect the wound more closely.
To her surprise and intense relief she found that, instead of being on her forehead, the cut began farther up, on the scalp, just reaching past the line of the hair.
That then, was the reason it had bled so profusely. A scalp wound is in appearance usually worse than in reality, sending out wild signals of distress when there is really very little to be distressed about.
Dorothy had evidently in falling struck upon a pointed stone, gashing the scalp jaggedly and in such a way that it seemed an ugly wound.
“Might have killed her,” muttered Tavia. “If she would only open her eyes! Perhaps some water—” But the irony of that suggestion curved her lips in a wry smile. Foolish to talk of water when nature was supplying it in bucketfuls, free of charge!
At that moment Dorothy stirred, lifted her hand in an aimless gesture and made as though to rise.
Tavia put a hand beneath her chum’s head, lifting her a little.
“Take it easy, Doro honey,” she advised gently. “You have had a pretty hard knock, and it may take a little while for you to remember what happened. Oh, keep still, will you!” she cried to the elements in senseless fury as a crash of thunder shook the earth, drowning out her last words. “Don’t you know it isn’t polite to interrupt a person while she’s talking? Doro darling,” as Dorothy once more made an effort to rise, “how are you feeling?”