When the fight was over, Lieutenant Murie called Creede to him and said he had been shot in the leg. Hastily dismounting, the anxious scout pulled off the officer’s boot, but could see no wound nor sign of blood. Others came up and told the Lieutenant that his leg was as good as new; but he insisted that he was wounded and silently and sullenly pulled his boot on, mounted, and the little band of invincibles started for camp. The Pawnees began to sing their wild, weird songs of victory as they went along; but they had proceeded only a short distance when Murie began to complain again, and again his boot was removed to show him that he was not hurt. Some of the party chaffed him for getting rattled over a little brush like that, and again in silence he pulled on his boot and they continued on to camp.
Dismounting, Murie limped to the surgeon’s tent, and some of his companions followed him, thinking to have a good laugh when the doctor should say it was all the result of imagination, and that there was no wound at all.
When the surgeon had examined the limb, he looked up at the face of the soldier, which was a picture of pain, and the bystanders could not account for the look of tender sympathy and pity in the doctor’s eyes.
Can it be, thought Creede, that he is really hurt and that I have failed to find the wound? “Forgive me, Jim,” he said, holding out his hand to the sufferer, but the surgeon waved him away.
“Why, you—you couldn’t help it, Nick,” said Murie. “You couldn’t kill all of them; but we made it warm for them till I was shot. You won’t let her know, will you?” he said, turning his eyes toward the medical man. “It would break her heart. Poor dear, how she cried and clung to me last night and begged me to stay with her and let the country die for itself awhile. Most wish I had now. Is it very bad, Doctor? Is the bone broken?”
“Oh no,” said the surgeon. “It’s only painful; you’ll be better soon.”
“Good! Don’t let her know, will you?”
They laid him on a cot and he closed his eyes, whispering as he did so: “Don’t let her know.”
“Where is the hurt, Doctor?” Creede whispered.
“Here,” said the surgeon, touching his own forehead with his finger. “He is crazy—hopelessly insane.”