I 'll protect you and your prisoner, but you 'll have to get out of there at once.

Can you locate me and make a dash for it?
Wrap your coats around your heads, and leave your guns behind." An instant he waited for the answer, fairly writhing in the intense heat, then Mason shouted, "Hampton 's been shot, and I 'm winged a little; I can't carry him." It was a desperately hard thing to do, but Brant had given his promise, and in that moment of supreme trial, he had no other thought than fulfilling it.

He ripped off his jacket, wrapped it about his face, jammed a handkerchief into his mouth, and, with a prayer in his heart, leaped forward into the seemingly narrow fringe of fire in his front.
Head down, he ran blindly, stumbling forward as he struck the ore-dump, and beating out with his hands the sparks that scorched his clothing.
The smoke appeared to roll higher from the ground here, and the coughing soldier crept up beneath it, breathing the hot air, and feeling as though his entire body were afire.

Mason, his countenance black and unrecognizable, his shirt soaked with blood, peered into his face.
"Hell, ain't it!" he sputtered, "but you're a dandy, all right." "Is Hampton dead ?" "I reckon not.

Got hit bad, though, and clear out of his head." Brant cast one glance into the white, unconscious face of his rival, and acted with the promptness of military training.
"Whip off your shirt, Mason, and tie it around your face," he commanded, "Lively now!" He bound his silk neckerchief across Hampton's mouth, and lifted the limp form partially from the ground.