“Are you hurt?” he inquired.
“No.”
He carefully examined the heap on the ground.
“Only a contusion and a slight brain-concussion,” he announced.
“You two,” I promptly said to two of the guards, “buck and gag Hobart. Do you know how?”
They shook their heads, but under my direction accomplished what appeared to be a disagreeable task. The process consisted in tying Hobart’s hands and feet, flexing his knees, slipping his arms over them, and thrusting a stick under his knees and over his arms, thus reducing him to a helpless knot. Then they thrust a towel between his teeth and tied it at the back of his head.
“Shall I do anything to revive him, sir?” asked the doctor. It was interesting to hear the “sir” slip from his tongue.
I looked to Captain Mason for directions, but his face remained void.
“No,” I said. Then to two of the guards, “Take him to the shade over there, on the ground,” indicating a tree near by and in full view of the camp.
Meanwhile, the tying of the other prisoners had gone on rapidly and smoothly. When it was finished, I ordered the men taken to the shade and lined up behind Hobart, who lay on his side, the guards standing by. The prisoners were a very sober-looking crowd.