“He has been badly hurt in a fight,” said the Doctor, “and the rough surgery of his tribe or his medicine-man does not act.”
“That’s it, master,” said Joses, who was standing close by with rifle ready in case of treachery. “His medicine-man couldn’t tackle that, and they think all white men are good doctors. It means peace, master.”
He pointed behind the Doctor as he spoke, and it was plain enough that at all events for the present the Indians meant no harm, for two trotted back, one to turn up a narrow rift that the little exploring party had passed unnoticed in the night, the other to go right on towards the entrance of the rough Horse-shoe.
“That means scouting, does it not?” said Bart.
“I think so,” replied the Doctor. “Yes; these Indians are friendly, but we must be on our guard. Don’t show that we are suspicious though. Help me as I dress this arm. Maude, my child, you had better go into the waggon.”
“I am not afraid, father,” she said, quietly.
“Stay, then,” he said. “You can be of use, perhaps.”
He spoke like this, for, in their rough frontier life, the girl had had more than one experience of surgery. Men had been wounded in fights with the Indians; others had suffered from falls and tramplings from horses, while on more than one occasion the Doctor had had to deal with terrible injuries, the results of gorings from fierce bulls. For it is a strange but well-known fact in those parts, that the domestic cattle that run wild from the various corrals or enclosures, and take to the plains, are ten times more dangerous than the fiercest bison or buffalo, as they are commonly called, that roam the wilds.
Meanwhile the rest of the band leaped lightly down from their ponies, and paying not the slightest heed to the white party, proceeded to gather wood and brush to make themselves a fire, some unpacking buffalo meat, and one bringing forward a portion of a prong-horn antelope.
The Doctor was now busily examining his patient’s arm, cutting away the rough bandages, and laying bare a terrible injury.