Great excitement came to them when the figure of a man was seen to drop
to the walk near the front gate. At first it was feared that one of the
bandits, injured by pursuers, had fallen to die, but the mournful calls
for help that soon came from the sidewalk were more or less reassuring.
The prostrate figure had a queer habit from time to time of raising
itself high enough to peer between the pickets of the fence, and each
succeeding shout seemed more vigorous than the others. Finally they
became impatient, and then full of wrath. It was evident that the
stranger resented the inhospitality of the house.
"Who are you?" called Edna, opening the window ever so slightly.
Whereupon the man at the gate sank to the ground and groaned with
splendid misery.
"It's me," he replied.
"Who's me?"
"'Rast--'Rast Little. I think I'm dyin'."
There was a hurried consultation indoors, and then Roscoe bravely
ventured out to the sidewalk.
"Are you shot, 'Rast?" he asked in trembling tones.
"No; I'm just wounded. Is Rosalie in there?"
"Yep. She's--"
"I guess I'll go in, then. Dern it! It's a long walk from our house over
here. I guess I'll stay all night. If I don't get better to-morrow I'll
have to stay longer. I ought to be nursed, too."
"Rosalie's playin' nurse fer Mr. Bonner," volunteered Roscoe, still
blocking the gate through which 'Rast was trying to wedge himself.
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