"No," Charley said, as he felt of the man's wrist. "He has just fainted, I guess. Give me a hand and we will carry him into our tent. We don't want to rouse up the whole camp and get every one excited."
They bore the Spaniard into their own tent and laid him on Charley's cot. A sprinkling of cold water in his face, and a small drink of liquor quickly brought the man to his senses. "What's the matter with you?" Charley asked when the Spaniard had emerged from his stupor.
"I do not know, señor," replied the guard. "Everything go black all of a sudden. I know nothing more—head hurts more now bad."
Charley examined his head. "The skin is broken a little," he said. "I guess you must have hit it against something when you fell. How do you feel now? Feel able to get over to your tent and get to bed?"
"I go back on guard," the man said as he staggered to his feet. "I feel all right again pretty soon," but as he still appeared half dazed the lad insisted on his going to his tent. Gomez was sent back on guard and Charley took the sick man's place. Both the Captain and Walter offered to take the guard duty, but Charley refused.
"You both have to work to-morrow," he said, "while I will have most of the day to rest up in. I don't feel the least bit sleepy now," and in truth he did not. This new incident had given him fresh food for thought. It had needed only a glance at the wound on Lavinia's head to convince him that it had been made by a bullet. If he had had the slightest doubt, it would have been dispelled by the fact that they had found the Spaniard lying face down. Their hidden enemies were getting bold.
When daylight came the weary, troubled lad drank a cup of coffee Chris had ready for him and tumbled down on his cot for a few hours' sleep. He was up again before noon, and after a hasty lunch he drove the truck into Jupiter after the supplies he had ordered from Jacksonville. He found them waiting for him, and after loading them on the truck, he wrote out a telegram to the sheriff and handed it to the agent, who whistled as he read it over. "There's a big reward offered for those four men," he commented as he clicked off the message with his key. "They are all four of them desperate characters. I guess I'll wait for the sheriff's reply;" then Charley said: "If there's a reward in it, we might want our share. Money isn't any too plentiful with us yet. By the way," he continued, "do you know a little man with mild blue eyes and a spade-like beard that goes by the name of Jones?"
"I don't know him, but I see him quite often," said the friendly agent. "He comes and goes here quite frequently, generally on night trains. He gets a lot of telegrams here. Most of them come from the state capital and New York. They are all code messages, that I can't make head or tail of. Everyone here in town knows him, but nobody knows his business, which is unusual in a little town like this. When he comes here he generally hires a horse and spends most of his time riding out in the woods. There, that's the reply to your message, I guess." He scribbled rapidly on a telegraph blank while the instrument clicked noisily. "That satisfactory?" he asked, as he tossed the sheet to Charley with a smile.
"Sure," Charley grinned, as he read:
"Sheriff's Office,
Palm Beach Co."The four escaped convicts you described are desperate characters—$500 reward offered for the capture of each. We'll divide reward. Too late to come to-day. Will come out by auto to-morrow morning and bring posse."
"Sheriff."