“Wonderful, indeed, friend Brush. It seems to me like a direct interposition of the Almighty.”
“That Indian boy is a trump. I’d like to shake hands with him.”
“So would I, but it might be misunderstood. It will be best to keep quiet and let things take their course.”
No sooner was Tom unbound, than with boyish warmth of heart he threw his arms around the neck of Miantonimo and gave him a brotherly embrace.
Wanuka and the Indian warriors looked on with approval, for was not Tom to remain with them and become the brother of their future chief. Their satisfaction was increased by the improved looks of Miantonimo. He no longer looked sick, but his manner was sprightly and his eyes sparkled. It was difficult to believe that he was the same boy who for days reclined, weak and spiritless, by the log-fire, wrapped in blankets.
“The Great Spirit has cured him!” went from mouth to mouth.
“Give me my bow,” said the Indian boy.
It was brought to him in wonder, and in place of resuming his position on the ground, he signed to Tom to come with him to a vacant spot near by, and putting up a mark, made him shoot at it.
Tom was no archer, and his shot was wide of the mark.
Miantonimo, laughing, took the bow, and carefully adjusting it, struck the object at which he aimed.