“Oh, it’s nothing, sir,” said the man.
“How do you know?” cried the doctor. “Here, let’s get behind that stone. They can’t touch us there.”
Griggs walked firmly enough half the distance to the shelter sought for, but he limped the rest of the way, and was ready enough to sit down behind the rock and let the doctor go on one knee to carefully draw up the bloodstained bottom of the man’s trousers just above where it was thrust into the high boot.
“Hah!” sighed the doctor. “Only a clean little cut in the flesh. I’ll put a stitch or two in it. Why, it’s as clean as if done with a knife.”
The doctor had laid his rifle ready to hand, and was busy at once opening a pocket-book containing the necessaries he required; but first of all he pulled round the bottle slung over his shoulder and carefully washed the diagonal cut.
“You don’t think there’s poison in it, do you, doctor?” said the American, with a look of amusement.
“Any form of dirt is poison to a wound,” said the doctor, drying the place; and then, after deftly drawing the edges of the wound together, cutting some strips of plaister with the bright scissors ready, and applying them to keep all protected from the air.
“Hurt much?” he said, as he worked away, Chris watching the while as if taking a lesson.
“Well, yes, I won’t say it don’t, doctor; but not worse than I feel somewhere else. I say, though, hadn’t we better make haste back to the fort?”
“Yes; you feel faint, don’t you?”