At noon the men and dogs met and sat down beside a tiny spring in a ferny hollow. McAllister made a small fire and boiled the kettle. The cold lunch was devoured by the four and the men drank tea and smoked pipes. Then the fire was trodden out and the last spark of it drenched with wet tea leaves. The search was resumed.
The sun was down and though the sky was still bright above the treetops a brown twilight filled the forest when the efforts of the searchers were at last crowned with success. The honor fell to the lot of Red Chief. Noel was about to turn and close on the center with the intention of rejoining Jim and making camp for the night when he heard the dog yelp excitedly again and again. He hurried toward the sound. He forced his way straight through tangled brush and over mossy rocks and rotting tree trunks, straight into the heart of a tree-choked hollow. The dusk was almost as deep as night in there but he saw the red dog yelping over something on the ground. He joined the dog and looked close. The thing on the ground was a man. It was Richard Sherwood, unconscious, perhaps dead.
Noel’s tough old heart failed him for a moment. It seemed to turn over against his ribs and he withdrew his glance from his friend and, for a moment, put an arm over the red dog’s shoulder for support. Then he laid his gun down and produced the flask from his hip. He forced a few drops of brandy between Sherwood’s colorless lips. His hand shook and some of the liquor spilled and ran into the wild, gray-shot beard. He felt unnerved—far too unnerved to go on with this thing alone. He believed that Sherwood was dead; and though he was glad of the red dog’s presence he wanted human companionship, too.
He moved away a few yards and discharged the right barrel of the old gun into the tops of the gloomy forest. The report thumped and thundered through the crowding, listening forest. Reserving the left barrel for a second signal, he returned to the body, raised the inert head again and forced a little more of the brandy between the cold lips. Red Chief whined and thrust his muzzle into Sherwood’s face. Noel drew back a little, gathered dry twigs and moss together blindly and set a match to them. The red and yellow flames shot up. The light steadied his nerves but did not ease his heart. He fed a few sticks to the fire, moved off hurriedly and fired the second barrel of the big gun. When the echoes of the report had thumped to silence he heard the shrill, faint whistle of Jim’s reply.
Noel became aware of a new note in the dog’s whines and yelps. He stooped close and saw that Sherwood’s eyes were open and alive.
“I’ve fooled you,” whispered Sherwood. “I’m as good as dead—and the little girl is safe.”
Then he closed his eyes. Red Chief ceased his whining, moved back a yard and lay down. Noel built up the fire.
Red Lily came leaping to the fire, followed by Jim McAllister. She yapped with delight and anxiety at sight of Sherwood, nosed his beard, flashed a red tongue at his pale forehead. Again he opened his eyes for a few seconds.
McAllister and Noel Sabattis worked over Sherwood for hours. The poor fellow was delirious, exhausted, burning with fever and suffering intense pain. They managed to get a little brandy and about a gill of water down his throat. He did not know them. He thought Louis Balenger was there.
“I’ve fooled you this time,” he said. “Marion is safe. Safe with people you can’t scare or trick. Safe from me—and safe from you. Leave her alone—or you’ll get caught in a trap—and die of it—like me.”