"Only the great, the good, the kindly people ever see it. One must live
well, must be manly and brave, and talk straight without lies, without
meanness, or 'The Scarlet Eye' will never come to them. They tell me
that, over the great salt water, in your white man's big camping-ground
named London, in far-off England, the medicine man hangs before his
tepee door a scarlet lamp, so that all who are sick may see it, even in
the darkness.* It is the sign that a good man lives within that tepee,
a man whose life is given to help and heal sick bodies. We redskins of
the North-West have heard this story, so we, too, want a sign of a
scarlet lamp, to show where lives a great, good man. The blood of the
red flower shows us this. If you drink it and see no red flowers, you
are selfish, unkind; your talk is not true; your life is not clear; but,
if you see the flowers, as you did to-day, you are good, kind, noble.
You will be a great and humane medicine man. You have seen the Scarlet
Eye. It is the sign of kindness to your fellowmen."
[*Some of the Indian tribes of the Canadian North-West are familiar
with the fact that in London, England, the sign of a physician's
office is a scarlet lamp suspended outside the street door.]
The voice of Five Feathers ceased, but his fingers were clasping the
small hand of the white boy, clasping it very gently.
"Thank you, Five Feathers," Jerry said, softly. "Yes, I shall study
medicine. Father always said it was the noblest of all the professions,
and I know to-night that it is."
A moment later, Jerry lay sleeping like a very little child. For a while
the Indian watched him silently. Then, arising, he took off his buckskin
shirt, folded it neatly, and, lifting the sleeping boy's head, arranged
it as a pillow. Then, naked to the waist, he laid himself down outside
near the fire--and he, too, slept.
The third day a tiny speck loomed across the rim of sky and prairie. It
grew larger with the hours--nearer, clearer. The Indian, shading his
keen eyes with his palm, peered over the miles.
"Little brave," he said, after some silent moments, "they are coming,
one day sooner than we hoped. Your brother, he must have ride like the
prairie wind. Yes, one, no, two buckboards--Hudson's Bay horses. I know
them, those horses."
The boy sat up, staring into the distance. "I don't know whether I'm
glad or sorry," he said. "Father will be driving one buckboard, I know,
and I'd like to see him, but, oh, I don't want to leave you, Five
Feathers!"
"You not leave me, not for long," said the Indian. "You come back some
day, when you great doctor. Maybe you doctor my own people. I wait for
that time."
But the buckboards were spinning rapidly nearer, and nearer. Yes, there
was his father, Factor MacIntyre, of the Hudson's Bay, driving the first
rig, but who was that beside him?--Billy? No, not Billy. "Oh, it's
_mother_!" fairly yelled Jerry. And the next moment he was in her arms.
"Couldn't keep her away, simply couldn't!" stormed Mr. MacIntyre. "No,
sir, she had to come--one hundred and seventeen miles by the clock!
Couldn't trust me! Couldn't trust Billy! Just _had_ to come herself!"
And the genial Factor stamped around the little camp, wringing Five
Feathers' hand, and watching with anxious look the pale face and thin
fingers of his smallest son.
"Oh, father, mother, he's been so good!" said Jerry, excitedly, nodding
towards the Indian.
"Good? I should think so!" asserted Mr. MacIntyre. "Why, boy, do you
know you would have been lame all your life if it hadn't been for Five
Feathers here? Best Indian in all the Hudson's Bay country!"
"Yes, dearie; the best Indian in all the Hudson's Bay country," echoed
Mrs. MacIntyre, with something like a tear in her voice.
"Bet your boots! Best Indian in all the Hudson's Bay country!"
re-echoed Billy, who had arrived, driving the other buckboard. But Five
Feathers only sat silent. Then, looking directly at Billy, he said, "You
ride day and night, too. You nearly kill that horse?"
"Yes, I nearly did," admitted Billy.
"Good brother you. You my brother, too," said the Indian, holding out
his hand; and Billy fairly wrung that slender, brown hand--that hand,
small and kind as a woman's.
* * * * * * * *
This all happened long ago, and last year Jerry MacIntyre graduated from
McGill University in Montreal with full honors in medicine. He had three
or four splendid offers to begin his medical career, but he refused them
all, smilingly, genially, and to-day he is back there, devoting his life
and skill to the tribe of Five Feathers, "best Indian in all the
Hudson's Bay country."