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Bob Hampton of Placer by Randall Parrish
page 44 of 346 (12%)
wonderment, she gazed up into those strange, rough faces surrounding
her, pausing in her first survey to rest her glance on the sympathetic
countenance of the young lieutenant, who held her half reclining upon
his arm.

"Here," he exclaimed, kindly, interpreting her glance as one of fear,
"you are all right and perfectly safe now, with friends to care for
you. Peters, bring another cup of that broth. Now, miss, just take a
sup or two of this, and your strength will come back in a jiffy. What
was the trouble? Starving?"

She did exactly as he bade her, every movement mechanical, her eyes
fastened upon his face.

"I--I reckon that was partly it," she responded at last, her voice
faint and husky. Then her glance wandered away, and finally rested
upon another little kneeling group a few yards farther down stream. A
look of fresh intelligence swept into her face.

"Is that him?" she questioned, tremblingly. "Is--is he dead?"

"He was n't when we first got here, but mighty near gone, I'm afraid.
I've been working over you ever since."

She shook herself free and sat weakly up, her lips tight compressed,
her eyes apparently blind to all save that motionless body she could
barely distinguish. "Let me tell you, that fellow's a man, just the
same; the gamest, nerviest man I ever saw. I reckon he got hit, too,
though he never said nothing about it. That's his style."

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