“What’s the matter with you, man?” he questioned, as he saw that the lithe steps of the red-man had grown slow and unsteady. That the flashing eye was dim, and that both hands were pressed upon his side, as if to still some great pain.
“Nothing, nothing. Don’t tell the daughter of the pale-face,” was the whispered reply, and Osse ’o fell into the outstretched arms of Waltermyer.
“By heaven! if there is not an arrow stickin’ in his side.”
A shriek rung from the bushes, and Esther Morse sprung to his side and knelt down by the wounded man, while Waupee, with the nimble and soft fingers of an Indian, used to such occurrences, was busy unfastening the garments.
“Don’t! don’t!” came struggling from the ashy lips of the sufferer. “Let me die.”
“If I do, may I be shot,” exclaimed the frontiersman, and his strong hands quickly tore away the fastenings.
“By heaven! It’s a white man!” he shouted. “No red-skin, but just as white as your’s, gal. Look and see!”
Waupee carefully drew out the arrow-head and stanched the blood.
“It is a hunting-arrow, not a poisoned one for war,” he continued, as she held it up to Waltermyer.
Esther saw the white shoulder glowing from under the torn hunting-shirt, and knew, with a thrill of joy, that the man whom she had so long taken for a Dacotah was of the same complexion as herself. Even then she remembered the situation in which she had been placed with him, and her cheek, neck and brow burned again. Ah! how well she remembered many an act and word, thought but lightly of at the time, that now identified his claim to birth and education; but she had no time for these thronging fancies. Would he live? A fervent prayer went forth from her heart, then nerving herself for the task, she strove to assist in dressing the wound. Gently, but firmly, she was repulsed.