Standing as he was, the Wild Man managed by raising March a little to lay his left hand on the pommel of his saddle; next moment his foot was in the stirrup, the moment after he himself was in the saddle, and a touch of his heel sent his horse cantering away towards the mountains.
Had March Marston seen his deliverer at that moment, with his long hair waving freely in the breeze, in emulation of the voluminous mane and tail of his splendid horse, his thoughts regarding the Wild Man of the West would have certainly returned more powerfully than ever. But March did not see him, his eyes being shut, his lips pursed, and his teeth set in a heroic attempt to endure the agonies to which he was subjected by the motion of the horse.
In half an hour they reached a rocky defile that led up into one of those wild, gloomy glens that are so characteristic of the Rocky Mountains. Here the Wild Man had to check his pace and proceed at a walk, thereby affording much relief to his wounded companion.
“Art sore i’ the bones, lad?” inquired the stout horseman, looking down at his charge as if he were a small infant in arms.
“Rather,” replied March. “Don’t you think it would be better for me to ride behind you? I think I could manage to hold on.”
“No, you couldn’t.”
“I fear I must be a terrible weight carried in this fashion,” urged March.
“Weight!” echoed the hunter with a quiet chuckle; but, as he did not vouchsafe any further reply, March was left to interpret the expression as he thought fit.
“I hope no bones are broken,” inquired March in a tone of anxiety.
“Hope not,” replied his captor.