The ex-trackman and amateur desperado raised his sound arm and carefully examined his head. It ached badly, yet it seemed intact.
“Skull, is it? An’ where is the break in it?”
“Of course, I don’t mean that, exactly. You bumped it pretty hard. What were you meaning to do, Dennis?”
He tried to rise but failed. Then he looked about him and realized that he was lying on a straw pallet, upon one of those curious roofs he had seen rising before him, when he engaged in the late combat. He reproachfully regarded Carlota, who sat comfortably curled up, her face bright, her hair freshly brushed, and her whole attitude one of entire complacency. Yet, as he made a second effort to rise and turned giddy, her expression changed to one of pity.
“There, poor dear, lie still. I’ll tell you all about it. Oh! Dennis, we’ve found friends! Wait. I forgot that the chief’s wife said you were to drink this as soon as you awoke.”
She lifted his head upon her arm and held an earthen bowl to his lips and he drank from it, eagerly. He was both faint and thirsty and the warm liquid was very grateful to him. It was a broth of meat which he, at once, termed “victuals an’ drink.”
“There, that is good. The others say that she is a fine ‘medicine woman’ and it should give you strength.”
All this was very astonishing to the injured man whose chief interest, however, concerned himself.
“What happened to me, Miss Carlota?”
“Why—I guess you tried to kill somebody—and he objected. The young men who were going to their daily tasks were gathered on the terrace, singing—”