CROWFOOT MAKES MEDICINE.
Although taken by surprise, the man looked at his benumbed and bleeding
hand a moment, then pulled from his neck a handkerchief tied there and
wrapped it around the mutilated member. By this time Hodge had his own
pistol out, and Bland was covered.
"You're lucky to get off with your life, you treacherous cur!" he cried.
"Now make tracks, and hurry about it, too."
"All right," said the leader of the ruffians, still with amazing
coolness. "But you pays dear for this hand--you and the gent inside who
fires the shot."
With that he turned his back and hastily strode away, the handkerchief
already dripping with blood and leaving a red trail behind him.
Hodge watched until the hurrying man disappeared down the valley.
Reentering the cabin, he found old Joe standing near the table on which
still lay Bart's Winchester. The Indian had refilled his pipe and was
smoking again in his most imperturbable manner.
"Crowfoot," said Hodge, with sincere gratitude, "I owe you my life. It's
lucky for me you fired just when you did. An instant more and Bland
would have shot me down. How did you happen to be so quick with the
shot?"
"Look um rifle over," grunted the old man. "Pick um rifle up. When Black
Eyes him go out, Joe think mebbe white man act crooked. Joe watch him
white man. When white man tries to shoot, Joe him shoot."
"You're a jewel, Crowfoot!" declared Bart; "but this thing will bring
trouble to the cabin in a hurry. As soon as Bland can have his hand
cared for, he will lead those ruffians over here to wipe us out. Now is
your chance to get away."
"Oh, no great hurry," returned Crowfoot. "Plenty time, plenty time."
"On the contrary, there may be very little time. If you're going, you
had better go at once."
"Plenty time," persisted the old man placidly. "Joe too old to hurry.
They no come right away. Mebbe Joe him look around a little."
As the old fellow was leaving the cabin, Bart called:
"Here's your own rifle, Joe, standing in the corner. Don't you want to
take it?"
"Leave him there now," returned the redskin. "Take him bimeby."
Outside the door, leaning against the wall, were a pick and spade. To
Bart's surprise, the old man picked these implements up and shouldered
them; after which he found Bland's revolver where it had fallen on being
knocked from the man's hand by the bullet, and took that along. Crowfoot
turned northward toward a tangled wild thicket, into which Bart saw him
disappear.
"Well, of all peculiar things for him to do!" muttered Hodge, completely
puzzled. "What the dickens is he up to?"
This question bothered Bart not a little, and, after a time, having made
sure none of the ruffians were yet approaching from the south, Bart
caught up his rifle and ran swiftly toward the thicket. On entering the
tangled underbrush, he soon came in sight of Crowfoot, who, although he
must have heard the other approaching, paid no attention whatever. The
defender of the mines paused in amazement as he noted the Indian's
occupation, for old Joe was busily at work, engaged with pick and
shovel, digging in the ground.
"What in the name of all mysteries are you doing, Crowfoot?" asked
Hodge, as he approached and stood nearer.
"Dig a little," returned the old man, with something like a joking
twinkle in his keen black eyes. "Mebbe get some exercise. Strong Heart
him great on exercise. Crowfoot hear Strong Heart tell exercise much big
thing."
Now, Hodge knew well enough that the aged redskin was not expending so
much energy and labor in mere exercise, and he lingered to watch a while
longer. Pretty soon old Joe unearthed a long root that ran beneath the
ground, which he immediately seized and dragged forth with considerable
grunting. Hodge noted then that he had one or two similar roots lying
near.
"Mebbe him be 'nuf," observed Crowfoot, as he severed the last root
unearthed and placed it with the others. "Think him be. Joe he get
plenty exercise for to-day."
Then, abandoning the pick and shovel where he had dropped them, the old
man gathered up the roots and started to retrace his steps to the cabin.
Still wondering at Crowfoot's strange actions, Hodge followed.
The sunshine lay warm on the valley, which seemed deserted save for
themselves.
"Man git hand hurt, him no hurry back much," observed Crowfoot.
"Not yet," said Hodge. "But he will come and bring his dogs with him
soon enough."
When the cabin was reached Crowfoot stood some moments looking at a
little pile of wood lying in a corner near the open fireplace.
"You build a fire, Black Eyes," he said. "Joe him cold--him cold."
"Well, your blood must be getting thin," declared Hodge. "You can bake
out in the sun to-day if you want to."
"No like sun bake," was the retort. "Too slow; not right kind. Want fire
bake."
"Oh, all right," said Bart, ready to humor the old man. "I will have a
fire directly."
To his surprise, while he was starting the fire, old Joe brought in more
wood that had been gathered in a little pile outside and threw it down
in the corner. Several times he came with an armful of wood, but
finally, seemed satisfied.
"There's a good hot fire for you, Joe," said Hodge. "Now toast yourself,
if you want to."
"Ugh!" grunted the Indian. "You keep watch. Keep eye open wide. Mebbe
bad palefaces come soon."
Bart knew this was a good suggestion, and he proceeded to watch for the
possible approach of the enemy. At the same time, he occasionally turned
from the open doorway to observe what Crowfoot was about. The old Indian
did not seem very anxious to warm himself at the fire. Instead of that,
he took the roots he had dug and held them toward the fireplace, turning
them over and over and warming them thoroughly, after which he beat off
the particles of dirt that clung to them. While he was beating one of
the roots by holding it toward the fire, he had the others arranged on
the flat stones of the hearth quite near the blaze, where they also
would receive warmth from the flames.
At last, his curiosity reaching a point where he could repress it no
longer, Hodge again asked old Joe what he was doing.
For some minutes the Indian did not reply. Once or twice he grunted to
himself, but finally said:
"Joe him make medicine. Sometime him big medicine maker."
"Oh, so that's it," said Hodge. "You are making medicine for your
rheumatism?"
"Ugh!" was the answer to this.
Bart was surprised and almost annoyed as the day dragged on and the
ruffians failed to appear. It seemed remarkable that they should delay
the attack so long; still, he was confident that it must come sooner or
later. All through the day after securing his roots old Joe worked over
them patiently by the fire. He dried them and turned them over and over.
And, while he was handling one of them and turning it before the heat
like a thing he was toasting, the others remained in a long mound of hot
ashes. The patience of the Indian over such a trifling task was
something to wonder at.
As night came on Crowfoot paused to say:
"Now, Black Eyes, keep sharp watch. Bad white men come to-night. Mebbe
they try to ketch um sleeping."
The first half of the night, however, passed without alarm. During these
hours the old redskin continued to putter with his roots, which he
carefully scraped with a keen knife. At midnight he buried them in the
ashes, on which hot coals were heaped, and then directed Bart to lie
down and sleep.
"Joe him watch now," said the old fellow.
Trusting everything to the redskin, Hodge rolled himself in a blanket
and slept soundly for two hours. He was awakened by Joe, who stirred him
with a moccasin foot.
"Get up, Black Eyes," said the old fellow, in a whisper. "Pretty soon we
fight."
"Those ruffians?" questioned Bart, as he leaped to his feet.
"They coming," declared Crowfoot.
He was right. Bland and his desperadoes were creeping on the cabin,
hoping to take its defenders by surprise. Crowfoot pointed them out, and
when they were near enough, Hodge called from the window for them to
halt. Realizing they were discovered, they sprang up and charged.
Instantly Bart and the redskin opened fire on them, Hodge working his
repeater swiftly and accurately, while the clear spang of Crowfoot's
rifle was heard at irregular intervals. The ruffians were unprepared for
such a defense, and, as they saw several of their number fall and others
were wounded, they halted, wavered, then turned and fled. Looking from
the window, the starlight showed the defenders a few wounded men
dragging themselves away.
"Pretty good," said Joe. "No more bother to-night."
With which he turned from the window, uncovered his roots, and replanted
them in a fresh pile of hot ashes.