He ripped off his jacket, wrapped it about his face,
jammed a handkerchief into his mouth, and, with a prayer in his heart,
leaped forward into the seemingly narrow fringe of fire in his front.
Head down, he ran blindly, stumbling forward as he struck the ore-dump,
and beating out with his hands the sparks that scorched his clothing.
The smoke appeared to roll higher from the ground here, and the
coughing soldier crept up beneath it, breathing the hot air, and
feeling as though his entire body were afire. Mason, his countenance
black and unrecognizable, his shirt soaked with blood, peered into his
face.
"Hell, ain't it!" he sputtered, "but you're a dandy, all right."
"Is Hampton dead?"
"I reckon not. Got hit bad, though, and clear out of his head."
Brant cast one glance into the white, unconscious face of his rival,
and acted with the promptness of military training.
"Whip off your shirt, Mason, and tie it around your face," he
commanded, "Lively now!"
He bound his silk neckerchief across Hampton's mouth, and lifted the
limp form partially from the ground. "Help me to get him up. There,
that will do.
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