“There’s a good hot fire for you, Joe,” said Hodge. “Now toast yourself, if you want to.”
“Ugh!” grunted the Indian. “You keep watch. Keep eye open wide. Mebbe bad palefaces come soon.”
Bart knew this was a good suggestion, and he proceeded to watch for the possible approach of the enemy. At the same time, he occasionally turned from the open doorway to observe what Crowfoot was about. The old Indian did not seem very anxious to warm himself at the fire. Instead of that, he took the roots he had dug and held them toward the fireplace, turning them over and over and warming them thoroughly, after which he beat off the particles of dirt that clung to them. While he was beating one of the roots by holding it toward the fire, he had the others arranged on the flat stones of the hearth quite near the blaze, where they also would receive warmth from the flames.
At last, his curiosity reaching a point where he could repress it no longer, Hodge again asked old Joe what he was doing.
For some minutes the Indian did not reply. Once or twice he grunted to himself, but finally said:
“Joe him make medicine. Sometime him big medicine maker.”
“Oh, so that’s it,” said Hodge. “You are making medicine for your rheumatism?”
“Ugh!” was the answer to this.
Bart was surprised and almost annoyed as the day dragged on and the ruffians failed to appear. It seemed remarkable that they should delay the attack so long; still, he was confident that it must come sooner or later. All through the day after securing his roots old Joe worked over them patiently by the fire. He dried them and turned them over and over. And, while he was handling one of them and turning it before the heat like a thing he was toasting, the others remained in a long mound of hot ashes. The patience of the Indian over such a trifling task was something to wonder at.
As night came on Crowfoot paused to say: