At that moment an exclamation from Redhand attracted the attention of the whole party. He was kneeling beside Macgregor, who had dismounted and lain down.
“I believe they’ve done for me,” said the fur trader faintly. “That arrow must have gone deeper than I thought.”
“You’d better let me see the wound, sir,” said Redhand; “your shirt is covered with blood.”
“No, no,” said the wounded man savagely; “let me rest—see, I’m better now. You will find a flask in the bag at my saddle-bow. Bring it here.”
“I know that Dick—the hunter—is a good hand at doctoring,” said March. “What a pity he is not here! We might carry you there, sir.”
“Carry me,” laughed the fur trader fiercely; “no, I’ll never be carried till I’m carried to my grave. How far off is his place? Where stays he?”
“Four miles from this. I’ll take you if you can ride,” said March.
“Ay, that I can, bravely,” cried the trader, who, having taken a deep draught of spirits, seemed to be imbued with new life. “Come, young sir, mount.”
The trappers endeavoured to dissuade the violent man from the attempt, but he could not be controlled; so March, hastily observing that he would see him safe to the hunter’s abode and return without delay, mounted his horse and rode away, followed by the wounded man.