He moved restlessly, and the lads saw for the first time that the four fingers and thumb of his left hand were gone. He saw them looking at the disfigured member.
“Not by a bullet or shell,” he said, by way of explanation, “but cut off with a hatchet, one at a time over a period of ten days, by the same Germans who finally thrust me into that hole to die. They were enraged because I refused to give them military information. They cut off the little finger, and gave me forty-eight hours in which to think it over. They repeated the process every two days until only the hand remained. Why they did not start in on the other I do not know.”
The grunt of rage which came from directly behind the lads caused all to turn, and the Frenchman to look inquiringly. John Big Bear had heard enough. He was striding away toward the door. And while his only language at the time was a series of deep grunts, could they have been interpreted they would have been to the effect that while his ancestors might have scalped a few whites, they never cut men’s fingers off to force a secret, and it was a pity, after all, that the Indian nation had not survived and prospered, to scalp every German who had the slightest warlike disposition.
“Our friend,” Tom explained to the mystified Frenchman. “And a brave and loyal fellow he is, too, although he seems a trifle queer to strangers.”
The Frenchman nodded, and, seeing the attendants approaching with a stretcher, to convey him to the waiting ambulance, he asked them to remain until he was actually started away.
The lads walked beside the emaciated officer, and as they emerged through the wide doorway they saw John Big Bear standing outside, apparently in deep and unpleasant meditation.
Looking beyond him Tom saw a group approaching—half a dozen German prisoners being taken to the rear under two American soldiers as guards. A moment later and he realized the first prisoner to be one of those whom they and John Big Bear had brought in. His exclamation attracted the Indian’s attention, and also that of the man on the stretcher.
John Big Bear looked at them without the slightest change in expression, but the effect upon the man who had been rescued from the dungeon was instant and startling.
With a cry that was almost a shriek he pointed at the big German in the lead. The recognition was apparently mutual, for the latter’s face went as white as chalk, his step wavered, and even though it was apparent he was making a tremendous effort to maintain his self-possession, his hands shook.
“The beast!” the Frenchman shouted, his weak voice breaking into an hysterical sob. “It was he—he—who cut off my fingers. It was he who threw me into that pit to die.”