The paper was thin and about the size of a dollar bill; it had been folded lengthwise and then rolled up. It read:
“Come right away. Governor hurt. Serious. Can’t leave. Will try to get to nearest village but am afraid to leave now. He fell and is bleeding bad. Think there’s something else the matter, too. Spotty died or would send.
Jeff.”
Raymond gazed for a moment at Jeb, then down at the dead hawk, then at the pigeon which Jeb still held, stroking it gently.
“It’ll never be delivered now, son, ’cause nobuddy ’cept this here little feller knows whar he come frum nor whar he wuz goin’—do they, Pidge?”
“But somebody’s dying,” said Raymond.
“Sure enough, but we don’t know who ’tis nor whar he is—nor whar his friends is neither. An’ this here messenger here won’t tell us—he’s got his own troubles. That thar hawk done more mischief than he thought for.”
For a few moments there was silence and Raymond gazed up into the trackless, darkening sky through which this urgent call for help had been borne. Where had it come from? For whom was it intended? Then he looked down at the limp body of the bird whose cruel, bloody work had snatched the last faint hope of succor from someone who lay dying.
“I—I’m glad you kil—fetched him, anyway——” said he.
The thought of those two unknown persons, the stricken one and his frightened companion, waiting all in vain for the help which that faithful messenger of the air should summon, and of that steadfast little emissary, on whom so much depended, fallen here into strange hands, sobered and yet agitated the boy, and he was silent in the utter helplessness of doing anything.
“Naow, if yer could ony tell whar yer wuz goin’ or whar yer wuz comin’ frum, Pidge, we’d be much obleeged,” said Jeb; “but you wouldn’t, would yer,” he added, stroking the bird, “’n’ I ain’t much uv a hand at pickin’ trails in th’air, bein’ as I growed up on th’hard ground.”