"The Indians are much excited," said Shrahegan, who soon found out all about the matter. "I hardly know what to do."
"Where is the sick boy?" asked Keith. "I should like to see him."
"In the chief's lodge. Come, I will take you to him."
The youth was lying upon several rugs on the floor, breathing hard. He was only a stripling, but noted for his rare skill in the chase and endurance on the trail.
The Medicine Man was by his side, holding the conjurer's rattle in his hand. He paused in his hideous, mournful noise when he beheld his hated rival enter the building.
This time the old chief gave no sign of welcome, but sat on the floor with his knees drawn up to his chin, and head bent forward in token of grief.
"Pale-face brought evil upon my boy," he said fiercely, when Shrahegan addressed him. "If he die the stranger must answer for it."
This Keith well knew, and unless something was done at once, not even Shrahegan's protection could save him from the angry Indians incited by the conjurer.
"Great chief," he said, advancing to the bowed figure, "cannot the Medicine Man cure your son?"
"No," came the fierce response.