“Half-an-hour lost, and we may be too late!”
They were the last words of the hunter, as he hurried away from the hut.
They were true, except as to the time. Had he said half-a-minute, he would have been nearer the mark. Even at the moment of their utterance, the man, whose red writing had summoned assistance, was once more in dread danger—once more surrounded by the coyotés.
But it was not these he had need to fear. A far more formidable foe was threatening his destruction.
Maurice Gerald—by this time recognised as the man in the cloak and Panama hat—after doing battle with the wolves, as already described, and being rescued by his faithful Tara, had fought repose in sleep.
With full confidence in the ability of his canine companion to protect him against the black birds, or the more dangerous quadrupeds, with which he had been in conflict, he soon found, and for several hours enjoyed it.
He awoke of his own accord. Finding his strength much restored, he once more turned his attention to the perils that surrounded him.
The dog had rescued him from the jackals, and would still protect him against their attacks, should they see fit to renew it. But to what end? The faithful creature could not transport him from the spot; and to stay there would be to die of hunger—perhaps of the wounds he had received?
He rose to his feet, but found that he could not stand upright. Feebleness was now added to his other infirmity; and after struggling a pace or two, he was glad to return to a recumbent position.
At this crisis a happy thought occurred to him. Tara might take a message to the hut!