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As he turned the thing over in his mind there came faintly, ever so faintly, to him from far, far to the south, as though but a breath of wind, the familiar "Whip-poor-will." "Whip-poor-will-l-l," shrilled back Slim. He waited, but there was no answer. It was as though a whip-poor-will itself was mocking his plight.
Tom Rawle, helpless for all his big body and physical strength, lay stretched out upon the ground unconscious, a pool of blood by his side! Slim put his water flask to the wounded man's lips and tried to rouse him, but without avail. "Whip-poor-will-l-l," whistled Slim. "Whip-poor-will-l-l."
"Whip-poor-will-l-l," Slim whistled again, and thrice, but each time there was nothing but the grim silence for reply. "Tom," he whispered into Rawle's ear, gently shaking the wounded man. "Tom, can you get up? I'll help you back. We can make it somehow together." But here again only the weak breathing of his comrade testified to their plight.
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