a cut on the head. He'll be all right in a few days."
Suddenly the injured man, who had been placed on a couch in the hospital, sat up. He felt of the bandage on his head. Then he looked around wildly.
"Did we beat the red imps off?" he asked. "Why is it I don't hear the firing? Have they retreated? Am I badly hurt? Let me get at 'em again! I'm a good shot! I can pick 'em off!"
He started from his couch, but the suregon gently pressed him back.
"What's the matter, Toots?" he asked. "Where do you think you are?"
"Toots? Who's Toots? I'm Corporal Bill Handlee, and I must get back to my post. I'm a sharpshooter, and the Indians are attacking us."
The surgeon looked at the injured man in amazement. He thought Toots was delirious. But to Dick the thrilling words meant much. He pressed forward. In his hand he held the battered marksman's medal which Major Webster had returned to him.
"Is this yours, Corporal Handlee?" he asked.
"Yes; where did you get it?" asked Toots. "But why don't some of you speak? Have we beaten off the red imps?"
"Yes," said Dick gently, understanding the whole story now. "They were beaten back some years ago, Toots. Oh, I've found you at last! Won't your father be glad!"
