“I won’t let ’em,” declared Ruth. She raised the sick man’s head again and put the cup to his lips. “I wish I had some clean cloths. Oh! let somebody ride over from the camp with food and any stimulants that there may be there. See if you can find some larger receptacle for water before you go.”
“She’s a cleaner!” muttered the Indian, shaking his head, and walking away to do her bidding.
CHAPTER XX—THE WOLF AT THE DOOR
Ruth had the old coat folded and under the sick man’s head again when Jib returned with a rusty old bucket filled with water. He set it down just outside the open door of the cabin—and he did not come in.
“What d’ye s’pose he’s got in the pocket of that coat that he’s so choice of, Miss?” he asked, curiously.
“Why! I don’t know,” returned Ruth, wetting her cleanest handkerchief and folding it to press upon the patient’s brow.
“He hollered like a loon and grabbed at it when I tried to straighten it out,” the Indian said, thoughtfully. “And so he did when you touched it.”
“Yes.”
“He’s got something hid there. It bothers him even if he is delirious.”
“Perhaps,” admitted Ruth.