As he spoke, he now broke the stick in two, throwing away part, and holding the remainder up against the Indian’s wounded arm.
Again the chief nodded, and this time he smiled.
“Well, we understand one another so far,” said the Doctor, “and he sees that I know what’s the matter. Now then, am I to try and cure it? What would you like me to do?”
He pointed to the arm as he spoke, and then to himself, and the Indian took the Doctor’s hand, directed it to the knife, and then, pointing to his arm, drew a line from the mouth of the wound right up to his elbow, making signs that the Doctor should make one great gash, and take the arrow out.
“All right, my friend, but that is not quite the right way,” said the Doctor. “You trust me then to do my best for you?”
He took up one of the short-bladed knives as he spoke, and pointed to the arm.
The Indian smiled and nodded, his face the next moment becoming stern and fixed as if he were in terrible pain, and needed all his fortitude to bear it.
“Going to cut it out, master?” said Joses, roughly.
“Yes.”
“Let’s give the poor beggar a comforter then,” continued Joses. “If he scalps us afterwards along with his copper crew, why, he does, but let’s show him white men are gentlemen.”