"And now," continued the doctor, as Parsons disappeared, "suppose you talk to the girl and tell her she shall not be injured. I presume you understand the lingo?"
"Thar isn't one between heah and ther mountings that I hain't had somethin' ter do with, fust or last. Ther gal am er Sioux."
"How can you tell that?"
"Jest as easerly as kin be," and he turned to and began addressing her in her native tongue.
The little train of emigrants had been about camping for the night in a little belt of timber by the side of a river when George Parsons had come suddenly upon a young squaw lying, ambushed as he presumed, in a thicket, and the girl would have been brained had not the scout interposed.
When spoken to in her mother tongue, by the scout, she arose and conversed freely, and for the first time the physician saw one with a red skin that had some claims to beauty; for her form was straight, her eyes soft in expression, though fire was hidden in them, her hair long but finer than the generality, and of intense blackness, her features regular and the mouth small and lips thin, her complexion a light olive. To add to all, she was neatly dressed.
Her story, as told to the scout and interpreted by him, was a simple one. Traveling alone from one village to another, her pony had fallen and escaped from her, and after following the trail until night was at hand, she was preparing to camp when she was surprised.
"Ask her if she isn't hurt," suggested the doctor; "it strikes me that she is in pain and trying to conceal it."
The scout did so, and for answer the squaw let her blanket slip from one shoulder.
"Great heaven!" shouted the doctor; "arm broken and no fuss made about it!"