He motioned to the poor devil lying by the fire.
"Look at him, Sarge," he went on, in a different tone. "You always had a
pretty good memory for faces. So have I, for that matter, but--go
ahead--look."
I bent over the man, looked closely at the still features, dropped on
one knee and turned his face toward the firelight to make sure. I
recognized him instantly, and I knew that MacRae had no doubts of his
identity, for each of us had broken bread and slept in the same blankets
with that quiet figure.
"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.
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