“The queer part is,” continued the man, “that the horse belongs to Andrew Harmon. I heard that Andrew had gone out with the Home Guards, but I could hardly believe it. I guess this fellow must have killed him and appropriated the horse.” “What! Andrew Harmon killed in battle?” cried the Doctor, straightening up from his examination of Calhoun. “Don’t believe it. He will turn up safe enough.” Then speaking to the girl, the Doctor said, “Miss Joyce, this man has nearly bled to death. I cannot tell yet whether the ball has entered his head or not. If not, there may be slight hopes for him, but he must have immediate attention. It is fortunate I came along as I did.” “Miss Joyce wanted us to take him into the house,” said one of the men, “but I suggested the barn.” “The barn first,” said the Doctor; “if I remember rightly, there is a large work-bench there. It will make a fine operating-table. And, Joyce, warm water, towels, and bandages.” Joyce Crawford, for that was the girl’s name, flew to do the Doctor’s bidding, while the men, to their credit be it said, picked Calhoun up tenderly and carried him to the barn, where the work-bench, as the Doctor had suggested, made an operating-table. Joyce soon appeared with the water, towels, and bandages. The Doctor had already taken off his coat and rolled up his sleeves, ready for work. Although he was a country practitioner, he was a skilful surgeon. Carefully he washed away the blood, then clipped away the matted hair from around the wound. It seemed to Joyce a long time that he worked, but at last the wound was dressed and bandaged. “The ball did not penetrate the brain,” he said, as he finished, “nor do I think the skull is injured, although the ball plowed along it for some distance. Fortunately it was a small bullet, one from a revolver, probably, which hit him. It cut a number of small arteries in its course, and that is the reason he has bled so much. An hour more and he would have been beyond my skill.” “Will he live now?” asked Joyce. “The chances are against him. If saved at all, it will only be by the best of nursing.” “He can be taken into the house now, can’t he?” she asked. “Yes, but you had better first let a tub of water be brought, and clean underclothes, and a night shirt. He needs a bath as much as anything.” Joyce had the men get the water, while she procured some underclothes which belonged to her brother. Calhoun’s clothes were now removed, clothes which had not been off him for a month. “Here is a belt,” said one of the men; “it looks as if it might contain money,” and he was proceeding to examine it when the Doctor forbade him. “Give it to Miss Joyce,” he said; “the fellow is her prisoner.” The belt was handed over rather reluctantly. Calhoun having been bathed, Joyce was called, and told that her prisoner was ready for her. “Bring him in, the chamber is all prepared,” was her answer. Calhoun was brought in and placed in a large, cool upper chamber.