Pausing in his tracks, the aged farmer stared from the lather-dripping, barebacked pony to the seemingly lifeless boy whose head his daughter was bathing and caressing. Unable to solve the puzzle, Mr. Jay called: “Who hurt him?”
Startled at the suddenness of the hail and wondering if her father had heard any of the words she had uttered as she worked over Phil, Joy turned a flushed face toward her father, only to scream:
“Put down that rifle, Pap! Don’t point it at us.”
Instantly her father obeyed, at the same time asking:
“What’s happened?”
“I don’t know.” And tersely Joy explained Phil’s arrival, his words, her blowing the horn, and the boy’s fainting.
“Must be something wrong with t’other one,” opined the farmer. “Wasn’t that a blast I heerd just agone? Probably t’other one got hurted. You go saddle up, your fingers is limberer than mine, and I’ll bring this young feller round.”
Joy also had heard the explosion, and, as her father’s words recalled it to her mind, she readily accepted his explanation of Phil’s arrival and swoon.
“Don’t be rough with him, Pap; he ain’t our kind,” she cautioned, as she tenderly placed Phil’s head on the ground, sprang to her feet, and raced toward the barn.
In reply, the aged farmer grunted, watching his daughter till she entered the horse-stable, then darted into the cabin, opened a cupboard, seized a black bottle, and, returning to the boy, raised his head, then forced some of the brown liquid down his throat.