"It's Rutter," I whispered, and MacRae nodded silently.

"He's done for, too--no, by God, he isn't!" I cried, and shrank
involuntarily, for his eyeballs rolled till only the whites showed in a
way that made me shudder. "He's not dead, yet, Mac!"

"One of you fellows get some water," Mac commanded. He squatted beside
me, holding up Rutter's head. In a minute Bruce was back with his hat
full of water from the creek that whimpered just beyond the willow
patch. I peeled off my coat and spread it over the marred limbs, and
Bruce held the water so that I could dip in my hand and sprinkle
Rutter's face. After a little his mouth began to twitch. Queer gurgling
sounds issued from his throat. He moved his head slightly, looking from
me to MacRae. Presently he recognized us both; his face brightened.

"Gimme a drink," he whispered huskily.

Mac propped him up so that he could sip from the hat. He came near going
off again, but rallied, and in a second or two his lips framed a
question:

"Did yuh--get 'em?"

I shook my head. "You might say that they got us," I answered.

"Who were they, Hans?" MacRae questioned eagerly. "And why did they do
this to you? We'll make them sweat blood for this night's work. Did you
know them? Tell us if you can."

"No," Rutter spoke with a great effort. Each sentence came as if torn