An Indian woman who had been sitting on the grass before the chief’s tent, a medley pack of Indian baskets arranged before her, glanced up.
“Snake! You know what to do,” went on Mr. Thurston hurriedly. “You know what to do——eh? Pay you well.”
At the last three magic words the aged squaw rose and hobbled quickly forward.
“Take boy him tent,” directed the Indian woman.
“I can walk,” remarked Tom.
“No; they take you. Heap better,” commanded the woman.
Instantly Mr. Thurston and Rutter took hold of Tom, raising him into their arms. Through the flap of his tent they bore him, depositing him on his cot. The Indian woman followed them inside.
“Now you go out,” she ordered, with a sweep of her hand. “Send him cookman. Hot water—-heap boil.”
Thus ordered, Jake Wren came on the run with a kettle of boiling water. The Indian squaw received it with a grunt, ordering that bowls and cups be also brought. When Wren came the second time he lingered curiously.
“You go out; no see what do,” said the squaw.