“I’m fine, thank you!” he smiled.
“Lie quiet, Mr. Douglass. Your head is hurt. My wife’s gone for warm water.”
“You are very kind, sir.” Douglass’ head was clearing now. “I’ve been shot.”
He heard a gasp and both men looked up. The little girl in her trailing white nightgown was leaning over the banister just above them, her blue eyes wide with excitement.
“Helen,” her father spoke sharply. “I told you to go back to bed!”
“Oh, father, can’t I help? The poor man is hurt!”
“Don’t worry, honey,” Douglass smiled up at her.
Now Mrs. Pitts was back with bowl and towels. She wiped away the blood, and Gideon Pitts declared that Douglass’ head had only been grazed. Douglass told what had happened, while they bandaged and fussed over him. Then Mrs. Pitts hurried away to get the guest-room ready.
“We’ll be honored if you’d stay the night!” Pitts said. There was nothing else to do. “I’ll drive you in town first thing in the morning,” his host assured him, helping him upstairs and into a great four-poster bed.
Everybody got up to see him off. Mrs. Pitts insisted that he have a “bite of breakfast.” The hired man had rubbed down and fed his horse.