She caught a glimpse of the unsteady hand that
held a cup of water, and she struggled to a sitting posture with a
shudder. Bill's shirt was ripped from the neckband to the wrist,
baring his sinewy arm. And hand, arm, and shoulder were spattered with
fresh blood. His face was spotted where he had smeared it with his
bloody hand. Close by, so close that she could almost reach it, lay
the grayish-black carcass of a bear, Bill's hatchet buried in the
skull, as a woodsman leaves his ax blade stuck in a log.
"Feel all right?" Bill asked. His voice was husky.
"Yes, yes," she assured him. "Except for a sort of sickening feeling.
Are you hurt?"
He shook his head.
"I thought you were broken in two," he muttered.. "We both fell right
on top of you. Ugh!"
He sat down on the tree and rested his head on his bloodstained hands,
and Hazel saw that he was quivering from head to foot. She got up and
went over to him.
"Are you sure you aren't hurt?" she asked again.
He looked up at her; big sweat drops were gathering on his face.
"Hurt? No," he murmured; "I'm just plain scared. You looked as if you
were dead, lying there so white and still."
[Illustration: "Hurt? No," he murmured; "I'm just plain scared.
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