A CALL FOR THE RED CROSS.
“Perhaps I don’t wish old Doctor Kane was here, though, to help us out,”
Hugh was saying to himself with a sigh, as he walked forward, and
mentally figured how much of the heavy responsibility would be taken
from his young shoulders could the genial old Oakvale physician be
present to take charge.
As he drew near the huddled figure of the striker, Hugh felt his heart
grow cold with dread. Then suddenly hope revived, for he believed he had
detected a slight movement on the part of the man.
“He may have only fainted from fright after all, or been struck by a
passing bullet and knocked unconscious,” the boy was telling himself
eagerly as he increased his pace until he was almost running.
In this fashion, then, he arrived on the scene, and bent over the figure
lying there on the ground. Gently, Hugh turned him over, but strange to
say he did not see any sign of a wound.
He dropped down beside the man and placed his ear close to his chest.
Immediately he discovered that his heart was beating, faintly it is
true, and with a peculiar flutter, but at least he was alive.
Hugh had a canteen along with him, which had been filled with cold water
before they started from their camp. This he now made use of, and
sprinkled some of the contents on the dark face of the foreigner.
“He’s coming to his senses!” Hugh told himself, with a sense of great
relief, “and there’s a mark on the side of his head that may have been
made by a passing bullet; either that or else he tripped and, in
falling, struck himself there. But I saw his eyelids quiver then; and
there, they opened part way! I believe he’s going to be all right yet.”
Why, the boy felt so relieved that it might have been thought he was
hovering over one of his beloved chums instead of an unknown foreigner
whose language he could not understand. But he was a human being in
distress, and scouts are taught never to stop and consider more than
this when a necessity calling for prompt aid faces them.
When he sprinkled a little more of the water over the man’s face, the
puzzled black eyes were looking up at him. Evidently the poor fellow
wondered what had happened to him. Hugh knew that his chums would soon
be returning, and that minutes were therefore precious to him.
“Can you get up?” he asked, making a beckoning movement with his hand
which the other could hardly fail to understand.
He struggled into a sitting position and stared around. When he saw the
figure of the other wounded man he shivered violently. Doubtless once
again he was passing through the horror of that dreadful minute when the
mob in flight was fired on by the guards, and shrieks of pain and fright
arose all around him, followed by darkness as he fell.
Then he looked toward the frowning stockade so near by, above which the
heads of the curious guards could be seen, as also their guns.
“Get up, and go to the rest of your people,” said Hugh, making gestures
with his hands, and ending up with pointing in the direction where he
knew the settlement lay.
The man must have understood him for he hastened to scramble to his
feet. There were a few loud jeering remarks from the stockade as the
guards discovered that, after all, the one man considered dead had come
to life in a wonderfully miraculous fashion, after the scout had done
something or other.
There were even some threats made which Hugh hardly imagined could be
seriously meant. At the same time the boy had the nerve to walk behind
the striker when he was hurrying off, in this way actually interposing
his body between him and the men who carried guns, and who were just
then looking upon all of these foreigners as enemies to be harshly
treated.
When Hugh had thus seen the frightened fellow safely out of range of the
stockade, a friendly patch of trees interposing, he discovered Alec and
Bud coming back with the empty stretcher.
He was at the side of the badly injured man when they arrived, and
assisted in getting him on the stretcher. Bud meantime must have taken a
nervous look around, for he hurriedly asked:
“Where’s the other, Hugh, the dead man?”
“Oh, that was him you saw hurrying off,” replied the scout master, with
a faint smile. “It turned out that he had been only knocked senseless by
a fall or something in the shape of a clipping bullet that struck him on
the head. I brought him to his senses by using a little water, and
started him off.”
Bud gave a chuckle at hearing this.
“Say, they’ll get your name in the papers yet if you don’t watch out,”
he told Hugh. “‘First aid to the injured,’ eh; seems to me that when a
scout can bring the dead to life, he’s got a heap beyond that point. But
I’m just as well pleased; it’s a whole lot better to have him step out
for the camp than it is for us to lug him there on this old stretcher.
I’m getting blisters on my hands already; but all the same I’m game to
keep on to the finish.”
Nor would he let Hugh even “spell” him at the poles when the other
offered to do so; it was one of Bud Morgan’s oddities that he never
wanted to give anything up on which he had started, no matter how
unpleasant a task it may have turned out to be.
“I’m going along with you this time, you know,” ventured Hugh after he
had helped them raise their burden, which seemed to be the hardest part
of the job; “so far as I can see there’s no more wounded lying around
here. Perhaps we haven’t run on all of them yet; others may have fled in
different directions, and we can look for them to show up from time to
time, some of them perhaps with wounds that need attention.”
Bud and Alec exchanged glances.
“Why, Hugh, that’s just what has happened already,” said the latter,
quickly.
“Do you mean there have been more wounded strikers come into the camp
since I left it?” the scout master demanded.
“Three of the same,” Bud answered, “and I tell you Arthur has got his
hands more than full with all the bandaging and such things. But he’s
doing it in great shape, though when I see the regular old field
hospital we’ve got over there I feel that help from the city can’t get
around any too soon.”
“I wonder if the news of the battle has been wired or carried in any
way?” Alec remarked, as he trudged along, holding to one of the poles
with each hand.
“I’m going to make sure it is,” replied Hugh, “by sending a scout to the
nearest telegraph station as soon as I get to the camp. Some of these
poor people are in a serious way, and for one I don’t propose to take
any more responsibility on my shoulders than I can help.”
“Goodness knows we’ve done enough as it is,” said Alec, though that
notion would never have prevented Alec from exerting himself right along
to continue the good work indefinitely.
As they finally arrived at the settlement, a crowd came out to meet
them. Many swarthy faces glowed with half-hidden fires, and Hugh could
see that there was only a spark needed to start the slumbering passions
into some desperate deed of retaliation.
He hoped that when the news of the riot reached the authorities, they
would send the militia to take charge, and place all those guards under
arrest until it could be ascertained whether they had acted within their
rights in shooting as they had done.
One woman acted as though on the verge of going crazy. She must have
been the wife of the man they were now bearing in. Indeed, only for Hugh
preventing it, she would have thrown herself upon the form of the badly
injured striker. When she fought like a wildcat to break past Hugh, the
latter appealed to the padrone, who had come bustling up.
“Keep her away, unless you want the man to die right here!” Hugh told
him. “Don’t you see he’s so badly hurt that he mustn’t be touched?”
The padrone grasped the situation, and closing a hand on the woman’s arm
he led her away, at the same time speaking to her sternly. After that
she no longer tried to brush any of the scouts aside, for she had
evidently been told that they were the best friends the strikers had,
and were trying everything in their power to save lives and stop pain.
When Hugh looked around, he was really appalled at what he saw. There
were some five who lay there on the ground, all of them groaning, and
carrying on as ignorant people nearly always do when in great pain of
body and distress of mind. Besides these there were a number sitting on
the ground, surrounded by clusters of their people, all of them injured
more or less severely.
The clatter of tongues was dreadful. It reminded Hugh of a certain
windmill he had once seen in action, one of the real old-styled Dutch
type, with the sails stretching nearly to the ground, and which made the
most dolorous sounds when the mill was working rapidly in the freshening
breeze.
Hugh had not forgotten what he had said to the two stretcher-bearers
while on the way over with the last load.
“Ralph, step here a minute, will you?” he asked, and the other
immediately complied, with a look of wonder on his face, for he could
not imagine what was about to be sprung on him now.
Hugh was hastily writing something on a piece of paper torn from an old
letter he had in his pocket.
“I am bothered about some of these wounded people, to tell you the
truth, Ralph,” the scout master told him. “I’m going to pack you off to
the nearest station on the railroad to send a message for me.”
“To the authorities, asking for help?” Ralph Kenyon queried.
“No, because that isn’t right in our line. The governor will learn all
about it sooner or later, and do what he thinks best. What we need now
most of all is a regular surgeon and a nurse or two. These poor people
haven’t anything to help out in taking care of the sick or injured. And
while on the way back I suddenly thought of something that might turn
out to be of advantage. It’s in connection with the Red Cross.”
“Oh, Hugh, I think I know what you mean!” cried Ralph, in some
excitement. “You were telling me that there was some sort of a state
convention of those interested in Red Cross work being held in
Farmingdale, which is only a few miles away from here, isn’t it, Hugh?”
“Just what it is, Ralph, and I understand that at the convention there
was to be a regular field hospital equipment of an up-to-date motor
ambulance with its surgeon and quota of Red Cross nurses. Now, if they
could only rush that ambulance out here and carry some of the wounded
strikers to the regular hospital, it would be a big thing, and take a
terrible load off my mind.”
“Give me the message, Hugh; I’ve got plenty of money in my pocket, and
will see it’s rushed through. What are you saying in it?” demanded the
now eager Ralph.
“I’ve addressed it to the Red Cross at Farmingdale, and it’s sure to get
to the right parties,” explained the scout master, as he handed the
piece of paper over to the messenger. “What I said was simply this:
‘Terrible riot at cement works; many strikers shot down. Caring for them
the best we can. Need help. Send surgeon, nurses and an ambulance.
Hurry. Boy Scouts of Oakvale.’ Now get on the move, Ralph, and see how
quick you can deliver the goods!”