“Poor fellow! Possibly the savage who sent that arrow through your shoulder. You’re a rum fellow, Nat.”
“Well, you were just as sympathetic, uncle,” I said. “See how you dressed his wound, just as if he were a friend.”
“No, I did not, Nat,” he said, smiling. “I dressed him just as a surgeon should a wounded patient. By the way, he did not seem to bear any malice.”
“Perhaps he will, uncle, when he knows I shot him.”
“Don’t tell him, then. We’ll all share the blame.”
“So you mean to stop here, then?” I said.
“Yes, certainly, for the present. Why, if we were to begin to pack up, I daresay the next thing we should see would be a flock of quetzals flying about.”
“But suppose a whole tribe of Indians attack us?”
“Not likely, Nat. These people are few and greatly scattered; but if we are attacked we shall have to give the poor wretches a scaring with a few charges of shot—I mean distant charges, scattered, not fired at close quarters like yours.”
The day passed slowly by, with my three companions working away to strengthen our little camp, and the wounded Indian sleeping. I, too, dropped off for an hour during the great heat of the late afternoon, and awoke feeling feverish and strange. But Pete was set to bathe my forehead with water, and the rapid evaporation made my head comparatively cool and pleasant, so much so that my uncle smiled.