“Are you going to cut out the arrow head?” I said huskily.
“There is no need; the Indian did that for you. Look here.”
I could not help shuddering, but I was firm, and watched him take hold of the slender arrow close to my shoulder, and with one stroke cut cleanly through it close to the wing-feathers. Then, going behind me, he seized the other part and made me wince once more with pain, as with one quick, steady movement, he drew the missile right through.
“Hurt?” he said cheerfully.
“Horribly, uncle.”
“Never mind that. It’s only through flesh. No bone-touch, and there are only a couple of little holes to heal up. Pan of water here, Pete.”
“Aren’t none, sir. I was going to fetch a bucket when I see what I thought was birds.”
“Tut, tut, tut!” ejaculated my uncle. “I must have some water to bathe the wounds.”
“All right, sir; I’ll run down for some. Bucket’s down there.”
“No, no! The Indians—they may attack you.”