As he sprang forward, a thud at his right caused him to turn sharply. He was just in time to catch Taggert as he swayed and pitched forward!
“Where is it, Tag, old man?” he sobbed.
A crooked smile struggled to the reporter’s livid lips. He fumbled at the right side of his breast. A fleck of bright-colored foam showed on his lips as they moved feebly. Robert stooped close to listen.
“Running like—hell, ain’t they—Bob?”
“Like hell,” Robert assured him, choking.
Feverishly he ripped open Taggert’s shirt to reach the wound, but the latter restrained him with his last remnant of strength.
“No use, Bob. I’m—done. Please listen—closer. That’s better. Take papers—inside coat pocket—send them—The Chronicle—if you get back. Let money go—to Mother. Picture here. Tell her—and Sarah—good-bye.”
His body went limp. The last word was barely audible. His gallant spirit had flown.
Robert let Taggert’s body down reverently. Poor, happy-go-lucky fellow! Three weeks ago he had been a stranger, a stowaway, an outsider prying into their affairs. Now he seemed like a lifelong acquaintance—a brother!
The swift tide of battle had swept on ahead. Near by a large, officers’ tent reared high its peak. Strangely it had survived the fierce struggle, which, but a few minutes before, had raged round it. To this tent Robert carried Taggert’s body, and placed it softly upon a cot inside. Choking back a lump in his throat, he drew a cover up over the cot and turned away. A bright blue sash caught his eye—one of the rare, brilliant-hued bits of apparel which only the most well-to-do Martians can afford because of the scarcity of minerals for dyes. This he tied conspicuously on the outside of the tent to identify it.