"Russ!" cried Sally, blushing furiously.
"What's the matter?" I queried innocently.
"You're a little previous."
"Well, Sally, I don't presume to split hairs over dates. But, you see, you've become extremely more desirable—in the light of certain revelations. Diane, wasn't Sally the deceitful thing? An heiress all the time! And I'm to be a planter and smoke fine cigars and drink mint juleps! No, there won't be any juleps."
"Russ, you're talking nonsense," reproved Sally. "Surely it's no time to be funny."
"All right," I replied with resignation. It was no task to discard that hollow mask of humor. A silence ensued, and I waited for it to be broken.
"Is Steele badly hurt?" asked Miss Sampson presently.
"No. Not what he or I'd call hurt at all. He's got a scalp wound, where a bullet bounced off his skull. It's only a scratch. Then he's got another in the shoulder; but it's not bad, either."
"Where is he now?"
"Look across on the other ridge. See the big white stone? There, down under the trees, is our camp. He's there."