int, and fell down; but quickly raised
himself again on one elbow and looked round.

"Shot!--dying!" he muttered; then turning to the boy--"Stay by me,
Little Bill. Don't leave me here all alone."

"No, I won't leave you, unless--perhaps it would be better if I rode
back to camp for help."

"True, true. It's my only chance," said the poor man, faintly. "Go,
Billie, and go quick. Put something under my head. And--stay--leave
your gun with me."

"I'm so sorry I haven't got one, but here is my bottle of water; you may
want that, and--"

He stopped, for Duncan had evidently fainted again.

The poor boy was terribly alarmed at this. He had wit enough to
perceive that prompt action was needed, for his friend was in very great
danger, while the buffalo runners were by that time out of sight in
front, and the camp was far behind. In this crisis Billie acted with
decision. First making the bandage over the wound more secure, and
pouring a little more water into the mouth of the wounded man, he went
to a clump of willows, and cut a stout switch, then, remounting, he
turned on his track and made straight for the camp as fast as his
willing pony could be made to lay hoof to the ground.

Arrived there, to his great relief he found the Cree chief Okematan, for
that eccentric individual had, owing to some unknown reason, refrained
from joining in the hunt that day. La Certe was also there.

In a few minutes, mounted on a fresh horse, Little Bill was galloping
over the prairie, acting as guide to Okematan, while La Certe followed
them, driving a cart with a couple of buffalo-robes in it.

That night, instead of rejoicing in the camp of the buffalo runners
after their successful hunt, there was uneasiness and gloom, for Duncan
McKay lay in his tent dangerously wounded, and it was generally believed
that the shot which laid him low had been fired not by accident, but
with deliberate intent to kill.

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO.

SUFFERING AND ITS RESULTS.

When the news that young Duncan had been shot was brought to Ben Nevis,
the effect on his father was much more severe than might have been
expected, considering their respective feelings towards each other.

It was late in the evening when the news came, and the old man was
seated in what he styled his smoking-room, taking his evening glass of
whisky and water.

"Elspie," he said, in a subdued voice, on being told, "help me up to my
bed."

This was so very unusu