A swishing of brush, a step, a soft, padded footfall; a looming, dark figure, and a long, low gray shape, stealthily moving—it was the last of these that made Wilson jump.
“Wilson!” came Dale's subdued voice.
“Heah. I've got her, Dale. Safe an sound,” replied Wilson, stepping toward the tall form. And he put the drooping girl into Dale's arms.
“Bo! Bo! You're all right?” Dale's deep voice was tremulous.
She roused up to seize him and to utter little cries of joy
“Oh, Dale!... Oh, thank Heaven! I'm ready to drop now.... Hasn't it been a night—an adventure?... I'm well—safe—sound.... Dale, we owe it to this Jim Wilson.”
“Bo, I—we'll all thank him—all our lives,” replied Dale. “Wilson, you're a man!... If you'll shake that gang—”
“Dale, shore there ain't much of a gang left, onless you let Burt git away,” replied Wilson.
“I didn't kill him—or hurt him. But I scared him so I'll bet he's runnin' yet.... Wilson, did all the shootin' mean a fight?”
“Tolerable.”