"Hampton!" The word rang out over the infernal crackling and roaring
like the note of a trumpet.
"Ay! What is it?" The returning voice was plainly not Hampton's, yet
it came from directly in front, and not faraway.
"Who are you? Is that you, Marshal?"
"Thet's the ticket," answered the voice, gruffly, "an' just as full o'
fight es ever."
Brant lifted his jacket to protect his face from the scorching heat.
There was certainly no time to lose in any exchange of compliments.
Already, the flames were closing in; in five minutes more they would
seal every avenue of escape.
"I 'm Brant, Lieutenant Seventh Cavalry," he cried, choking with the
thickening smoke. "My troop has scattered those fellows who were
hunting you. I 'll protect you and your prisoner, but you 'll have to
get out of there at once. Can you locate me and make a dash for it?
Wrap your coats around your heads, and leave your guns behind."
An instant he waited for the answer, fairly writhing in the intense
heat, then Mason shouted, "Hampton 's been shot, and I 'm winged a
little; I can't carry him."
It was a desperately hard thing to do, but Brant had given his promise,
and in that moment of supreme trial, he had no other thought than
fulfilling it.
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