The blood was streaming from a deep wound in his breast, and he was plainly done for; but he smiled when he saw her, then reeled, and would have fallen had it not been for the horse. Beatrice took hold of him, and, gasping, he sank to the ground at her feet.
The sand formed a hollow where they were, with the hill on one side of it and the lake on the other. Drifted ridges of sand still further screened them, and it was not likely that they would be seen.
"Poor old Major," said Ronald, with long pauses between the words; "poor—old—boy!" With trembling hands he loaded his pistol, and, before she knew what he was going to do, he had shot the dog.
"They'd—hurt him," he explained, with a feeble wave of his hand. "They're all—over there. The Captain has surrendered, but—Wells and Norton are dead—and most of the boys. The squaws are on the field with—with the others. They're opening up the wounds with—with pitchforks!"
His face whitened. Beatrice put her arm around his shoulders, and he leaned heavily upon her breast. "It's worth while—to die—" he gasped—"for this!"
"You're not going to die, dear. We'll stay here till night, then we'll go on to Fort Wayne. You can ride Queen."
Hurt as he was, Ronald smiled. "I—I wouldn't ride that—that gun carriage," he said with something of his old spirit. "Heart's Desire, you must not stay. At the first chance, go—ride like mad to—to Fort Wayne—if you are pursued or surrounded—you know what to do!"
His dimming eyes wandered to the bag of cartridges and the pistol at her belt.
"Yes," she said steadily, "I know what to do."
"Go!" he whispered.