The Indian shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know."
"Can't some of your men make a litter of boughs and carry me?" pleaded Mr. Cabot.
"They could if they wanted to," answered the Indian, coldly. "But I don't think they want to."
"Haven't we always been friends?" urged Mr. Cabot.
"I suppose so."
"Haven't I been here summer after summer, and helped you, and given medicine to sick people?"
The Indian picked up handfuls of sand and threw them on the fire. "Yes, and you were always writing in a little book. Maybe when you went away from here you told lies to the world about us. Who knows?"
Mr. Cabot was puzzled. Was this the friendly, peaceful Chief he knew before he had the misfortune to fall and hurt his leg?
In spite of the pain he was suffering, he tried to talk calmly and not show that he was afraid of being left behind. "Why have you turned against me?"
"What do you mean?" the Indian chief answered.