The next minute my smarting wounds were being bathed and the bleeding encouraged till it stopped naturally, when my uncle brought out his pocket-book, applied some lint from it, and bandaged the places firmly, afterwards turning a handkerchief into a sling.
“There,” he said, “you need not fidget about poison, my lad. The place will soon heal. Now then, any sign of the enemy?”
“No, sir,” cried Pete; “they cut away across the river, all but that chap that was hit.”
“Was one hit?” said my uncle eagerly.
“Yes, sir; he’s lying down yonder by the water, and he’s got our chopper.”
“What?”
“I come upon him lying bleeding, and as soon as he saw me he began to put an arrow on his bow-string; but I hit him on the nose, broke his bow in two, and chucked his arrows in the river. He must have come before, and sneaked our old axe.”
“Then he’s there now?”
“Yes, sir; he can’t run. You winged him—I mean legged. But I’ve got our chopper again.”
“Sit still, Nat,” said my uncle. “Here, Pete, carry my gun, and you, Cross, come and cover me. I can’t leave the poor wretch like that.”