In his border life Melton had picked up a slight knowledge of surgery, and he washed and dressed the wound as well as the limited conveniences at his disposal would admit. Having done so, Cooney Joe rose up, though somewhat “weak and staggering,” to use his own expression, and was ready to “fight or run,” as circumstances might require.
“Now see here, cripples,” he said. “That carroty-headed son of a gun, Dick Garrett, is a whole boss-team, you bet ye. He’ll fight—he will—till the teeth meet in the flesh. Oh, you bet he is on it, now. He kin shoot, and when we foller him, we ain’t tracking Sacs, so look out for thunder.”
“And he is in league with Black Will, and that scoundrel has a hundred ruffians at his beck and call,” said Melton. “We never should have had any trouble with the Indians but for men of his kidney.”
“Now fur trailing,” said Cooney Joe. “Stand one side, you critters, and let the old man work! I’ve got a mark that can’t be beat, fur Dick wears the biggest moccasin of any man in the Nor’-west. Look around mighty spry, and when you find a track like a young canoe, that’s Dick Garrett’s hoof.”
The trail was quickly found, and led to the northward. They followed it swiftly, Cooney Joe bending slightly in the saddle, and keeping his eyes on the trail, while the rest followed, keeping far enough behind not to disturb the trail. After a march of nearly two miles, the track suddenly ended upon the bank of the Father of Waters, and they knew that the scoundrels had taken to the stream.
“Now ain’t this cussid mean; ain’t it enuff to make a man raise his hand against his venerable ancestor?” roared Joe. “They’ve took water, they hev. Here; send back two men with the hosses, fur we’ve got to hoof it.”
This plan was adopted, and two of the men returned with the horses, while the rest searched about among the reeds, and after some trouble found two rude dug-outs concealed, in which, by making two trips, they crossed the great stream. Here they scattered and searched up and down for the trail which they had lost, still guided by the ponderous hoof of Dick Garrett.
“Oh, ain’t he pizen, that Dick!” growled Cooney Joe. “Its just his nat’ral cussedness, you know. He’s aweer that I like to ride, and he jest done this to be mean. Comes nat’ral to him, meanness does. Here you are; come on, boys!”
He had taken up the recovered trail as if no interruption had occurred, and the party moved on across the plain. They were tried men, who had followed Captain Melton in many an hour of danger, but even their hearts gave a great leap as they plunged into the Indian country, perhaps never to return.