“Well, I kin try.”
And then the renegade bent over the sleeping man. With his keen-edged hunting-knife he ripped open the stranger’s shirt.
Silently, for a few moments, Kendrick examined the wound; then with his strong arms he turned the stranger over, gently.
“It’s all right, gal; ’tain’t nothing but a flesh wound. The ball has passed right through the side just under the shoulder. He’s suffering more from loss of blood than any thing else. A few days will fix him all right. Just bind up the wound. Put on a bandage and a poultice of these leaves,” and the renegade drew a handful of leaves from the Indian pouch that hung by his side, and gave them to the girl. “It’s a Shawnee medicine and powerful healing. Just chew the leaves up and apply them wet to the wound. And now, I must be going. It ain’t much use for you to waste your time curing this young fellow, because, if he stays round hyer, the savages will have his scalp afore he’s a week older. Look out for yourself, now.” And, with this parting injunction, the renegade left the house.
“And to think that this man, a renegade to his country and his kin, a consort with the red Indians, is my father,” the girl muttered, bitterly.
Then she proceeded to dress the wound of the stranger. She applied the leaves as directed by the renegade. Then bound them tightly in their place with strips of cotton.
The cooling influence of the simple savage remedy seemed to give almost instant relief to the wounded man.
Anxiously she watched the expression of his face.
A few minutes of silence ensued. Then the stranger, with a sigh, turned, restlessly, on the deer-skin couch and awoke.
The wounded man was Harvey Winthrop.