Had not Solomon reached the scene at that very moment with his ax, this story might have had a sad ending. One mighty sweep of that terrible weapon, and the battle was finished.
“Are ye hurt, boy?” cried the hunter. “Your last shot did the business, but I had to kinder second the motion. Whar are ye?”
Tom sat up straight, shouted: “Here I am! Hurrah!” and with a very queer feeling in his head, rolled over on the moss.
When he came to himself, the first thing he saw was Solomon bending over him, chafing his hands and trying to force some kind of hot liquor down his throat. There was the tinkling of a tiny stream somewhere among the moss close by, and a big Douglas fir stretched its boughs overhead.
“Where—where are we?” he stammered, trying to rise.
“Naow don’t ye go to rushin’ raound,” counseled Baranov. “I’ve lugged ye off a piece to a first-rate leetle campin’ graound, an’ all you’ve got to do is to lay still whar ye be, while Fred an’ I fix things a leetle.”
“Is the bear”—began Tom, trying to remember, and wondering what made his head swim.
“He’s right whar we left him, an’ thar he’ll stay I reckon, till we get ready to borrer his coat. Got some kindling, Fred?”
“Here you are!” called that genteel young man, staggering up with an armful of dry boughs. His hands were covered with pitch and his eyeglasses dangled from the cord.
“Halloo, you scarred old veteran, you!” he cried, dropping on his knees beside Tom. “Feeling better? What a clip he did give you!”