The brute whined and ran to his masters and then back to the bushes.
"It maybe a trap to catch us," said Elwood. "I prefer very much taking to the canoe and getting away from the island."
"But it may be some one suffering and needing help. He may perish if we leave him here."
"Yez spakes the truth," said Tim. "The blessed Father would never forgive us if we should desart one of his creatures when he needed hilp."
Tim now advanced straight to the bushes, paused, and then parted them and looked in. He was heard to mutter something to himself; then he came back.
"It's an Injin, a-layin' on the ground, a-groanin' and a-rollin' over. I guess the poor fellow has got his last sickness, and we can't help him any."
All feelings were at once merged into that of pity. The three advanced and parted the bushes. There, sure enough, lay an Indian apparently nigh unto death. He turned his black eyes up to the white people in a manner that would have melted the heart of a Nero. He lay doubled up on his blanket, with his gun a short distance from him. He belonged to the Pah Utah tribe, although their hunting-grounds are further to the southwest. This fact, as a matter of course, was unknown to our friends.
The first impression was that he had been badly wounded, but a second glance showed that he was deadly sick.
Elwood Brandon had placed his hand upon the dusky forehead, and the heat and throbbing temples told him at once that he was possessed with a burning fever.
The poor Indian muttered something unintelligible, but which bore some resemblance to the word "Shasta," and he made a motion toward his mouth and then threw his head back and imitated the act of drinking.