“Unhook the tailboard,” he said sharply.  “Two of you pick up the shutter.  Four more here.  Now, arms about his shoulders, hips, and knees.  Lift and lower—­step off with right foot, leading bearer, with your left in the rear!”

It was done in a few moments, and when the bearers passed into the big hall that rang with their shuffling steps, Maud Barrington shivered as she waited with her aunt in an inner room.  That trampling was horribly suggestive, and she had seen but little of sickness and grievous wounds.  Still, the fact scarcely accounted for the painful throbbing of her heart, and the dizziness that came upon her.  Then the bearers came in, panting, with Barrington and Dane behind them, and the girl was grateful to her aunt, who laid a hand upon her arm when she saw the singed head, and blackened face that was smeared with a ruddier tint, upon the shutter.

“Lower!” said Colonel Barrington.  “Lift, as I told you,” and the huddled object was laid upon the bed.  Then there was silence until the impassive voice rose again.

“We shall not want you, Maud.  Dane, you and I will get these burnt things off him.”

The girl went out, and while she stood, feeling curiously chilly in an adjoining room, Barrington bent over his patient.

“Well put together!” he said thoughtfully.  “Most of his people were lighter in the frame.  Well, we can only oil the burns, and get a cold compress about his head.  All intact, so far as I can see, and I fancy he’d pull through a good deal more than has happened to him.  I am obliged for your assistance, but I need not keep you.”

The men withdrew, and when a rattle of wheels rose from the prairie, Maud Barrington waylaid her uncle in the hall.  Her fingers were trembling, and, though her voice was steady, the man glanced at her curiously as she asked, “How is he?”

“One can scarcely form an opinion yet,” he said slowly.  “He is burned here and there, and his head is badly cut, but it is the concussion that troubles me.  A frantic horse kicks tolerably hard you know, but I shall be able to tell you more when the doctor comes to-morrow.  In the meanwhile you had better rest, though you could look in and see if your aunt wants anything in an hour or two.”

Maud Barrington passed an hour in horrible impatience, and then stole quietly into the sick-room.  The windows were open wide, and the shaded lamp burned unsteadily as the cool night breeze flowed in.  Its dim light just touched the man who lay motionless with a bandage round his head, and the drawn pallor of his face once more sent a shiver through the girl.  Then Miss Barrington rose and lifted a warning hand.

“Quite unconscious still,” she said softly.  “I fancy he was knocked down by one of the horses and trampled on, but your uncle has hopes of him.  He has evidently led a healthy life.”

The girl was a little less serene than usual then, and drew back into the shadow.