For a mile or more they raced wildly, while Bud clutched the wagon-box to keep from being thrown out. The clouds had broken now and the road was visible. He tried to control the team, which was almost exhausted, but they were not through running yet.
A little further on they ran into a stretch of deep mud, which pulled them down to a walk. It was growing daylight now. Bud nodded with drowsiness. He was weak from exertion and loss of blood and had no mind to fight it off; he wrapped the lines around his arm and braced himself against the side of the wagon-box.
Then it seemed that the team had stopped and he heard voices. Someone was shaking him. He opened his eyes and looked up at Grandon.
"Good ol' Grandon," muttered Bud. "Yuh ain't changed a bit. How are yuh?"
Grandon had a smile on his face and Bud shook his head. This could not be Grandon. He must be dreaming. Then he saw old Louie Beaudet, looking down at him; then Dr. Clarey.
"I've sure got lots of folks in m' dreams," he grinned sleepily, but no sound came from his lips.
They were talking now and he frowned over the line of conversation. It was not just like a dream, somehow. He turned his head and glanced around. The familiar interior of Louie Beaudet's store was too real to be a dream, and if that was not enough, there was Norah Clarey sitting in a chair, looking at him.
It was a very disheveled Norah Clarey, to be sure, and her face was white and tired-looking. Little Marie Beaudet was crouched on the floor beside her, holding her hand.
Bud frowned. It was beyond him. The doctor and Grandon were talking about Joe Burgoyne. Then it began to come back to him; the fight, the runaway team. He turned back on his pillow and stared up into Henderson's face.