Around him was the beat of the rain
on the leaves and the sodden earth, and he looked up at a sky, wholly
hidden by black clouds. He would need all his forest lore, and all the
primitive instincts, handed down from far-off ancestors. But never were
they more keenly alive than on this night.
The boy did not veer from the way, but merely by the sense of direction
took a straight path toward the fallen log that he remembered. The din
of battle still rolled slowly off toward the south, and, for the moment,
he forgot it. He came to the log, bent down and touched a cold face. It
was Paul. Instinctively his hand moved toward the boy's head and when it
touched the thick brown hair and nothing else, he uttered a little
shuddering sigh of relief. Dead or alive, the hideous Indian trophy had
not been taken. Then he found the boy's wrist and his pulse, which was
still beating faintly. The deft hands moved on, and touched the wound,
made by a bullet that had passed entirely through his shoulder. Paul had
fainted from loss of blood, and without the coming of help would surely
have been dead in another hour.
The boy lay on his side, and, in some convulsion as he lost
consciousness, he had drawn his arm about his head.
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