Then he lay quiet. But his breathing was hurried; his pulse, bounding; and he continued to moan occasionally, and mumble and babble words that could not be understood.
“The Winnebagoes!” Bradford muttered, scowling darkly.
Arising, he began to hasten the preparations for departure. He partook of the parched corn and broiled venison the savages had prepared. Afterward he took a small portion of the tender meat, pressed its savory juices into a drinking cup, and poured the liquid down his patient’s throat. Ordering the litter brought to him, he stripped off his own hunting-shirt—unmindful of the chill atmosphere—and rolled it into a pillow for Douglas’s head. Carefully and tenderly placing his charge upon the springy bed, he covered him with a ragged, scarlet blanket which one of the Pottawatomies had worn around his shoulders; and selecting four of the most stalwart warriors and giving them minute instructions how to carry the litter, he ordered the band to start upon the return journey.
“Do we go back to Wildcat Creek?” Long Gun inquired.
“No,” Bradford answered, “we go to the villages of the Miamis, upon the Mississinewa.”
“But are our people there?”
“Yes, by this time.”
“Ugh!” was the satisfied rejoinder.
And Long Gun relapsed into his wonted silence.