ain’t nothing like a woman.” One of the Mexicans came back from the cook tent with a blanket, and upon this they gently lifted Stephen. Then four men carried him to the nearest tent. Jean walked beside them, holding her wet handkerchief tightly against Loring’s forehead, in vain attempt to stop the bleeding. They laid him on the ground, inside the tent. “Now you must go, Miss Cameron,” implored[38] McKay. “I’ll send you up to camp in one of the teams. Your father would never forgive me if I let you stay. Why you are as pale as—” [38] The girl interrupted him decisively. “Are there any cloths here for bandages?” He looked hopelessly around the tent with its pile of dirty quilts. “I don’t see anything,” he murmured. Jean seized the soft white stock about her neck, and with a quick tug tore it off. “This will do,” she breathed, as she placed the impromptu bandage about Loring’s head. “Now tie this! I can’t pull it tightly enough.” McKay drew the ends of the bandage together, and clumsily knotted them. Then he thought of his one universal remedy. Meekly turning to Jean he asked: “How about some whisky for him?” She nodded, and he drew a flask from his pocket. With strong fingers he pried open Stephen’s jaws, and poured the whisky down his throat. The stimulant brought a slight color to the mask-like face. “I guess he would sure enjoy this some, if he were conscious,” thought McKay grimly. The men had been sent back to work, and only he and Miss Cameron knelt in the tent by Stephen, feeling[39] anxiously for the slow heart-beats in the big helpless frame. Then came the pound of horses’ hoofs on the road, the sliding sound of a pony flung back in full career upon his haunches, and the doctor stood pulling open the flaps of the tent. Jean rose to her feet. [39] “I shall only be in the way now,” she said, and stepped outside into the vivid sunlight. [40] [40]
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