“Because I only fired once.”
“Then who did the rest of it? By Jove! Where's Wilson?”
Beveridge turned sharply at the question. “That's a fact,” he muttered. They had reached the front steps by this time, and could see Harper ostentatiously standing guard with drawn revolver. “Say, Pink, have you seen Bert anywhere?”
“No. Thought he was inside with you.”
“Step around the house, quick. We 'll go this way.”
They found Wilson lying on the ground, not far from the front of the house. He had plunged forward on his face, with his arms spread out before him. Apparently he had been running around from the rear to join Beveridge when the ball brought him down. In an instant the two men were kneeling by him.
“How is it, Bill? Can you tell?”
“He isn't gone yet. Get a light, will you?” Dick ran back into the house and brought out Van Deelen with a lamp and some improvised bandages. Beveridge had some practical knowledge of first aid to the injured; and the farmer seemed really to have some little skill, as a man must who lives with his family twenty-five miles from a physician. And so between them they managed to stanch the flow of blood while Dick and Pink were carrying a small bed out of doors. With great care not to start the flow again, they carried him into the front room.
“Did you notice,” said Beveridge to Smiley, when they had made him as comfortable as they could, “where he was hit?”
“In the back, wasn't it?”