“Gee!” said Goodwin, “they are determined to kill or catch him!”
On came the horse like mad, head outstretched, with foam flecked flanks, and at last out of range of the enemy’s guns. But still the rider did not right himself in the saddle. An involuntary cheer went up from our ranks for the rider and horse, as they passed the line of danger.
“He is wounded and bleeding,” I cried, viewing him through my glass. And then, a moment later, my heart gave a great jump of pain. I recognized in the rider, Jonathan, and rushed forward to his help.
The horse whinneyed in recognition at my approach and stopped. In another moment I had taken Jonathan from the horse into my arms. His eyes met mine with a faint smile of recognition, and he tried to speak—but could not. I hurried regardless of everything else to the first aid station, sending a messenger ahead, on the run, that they might have everything ready.
“Hurry!” I cried. “Have them ready when we get there!”
The surgeon cut away his shirt, revealing a wound in his left breast and made a rapid examination. “They have done their work,” he said; “there is but little that we can do!”
“Don’t say that!” I cried. “Do all you can to save him!”
Then, seeing the auto that was at my service near by, I said to my messenger, “Go to the base hospital and bring Doctor and Miss Rich. Hurry! Tell them that Lieutenant Nickerson is here desperately wounded.”
The first aid surgeon administered stimulants and more critically examined his breast wound. Then, seeing that his patient was in pain, said: “I can ease his pain, at least.”
“No,” I said with sudden inspiration, “don’t give him morphia; I forbid it!”