"You with my people. Pawnee village on Platte River. Heap sick boy. Been here many sleeps."
"I have?" Joe rubbed his head confusedly. "How did I get here? I don't remember—oh!"—as memory began to come back to him—"oh, I was shot—and some Indian came——"
"My young men hunt buffalo. Fin' you heap sick. Bring you back Big Chief. Big Chief my favver."
"Oh, and I am in your wigwam? This is your camp?"
Pashepaho nodded.
"And you have been taking care of me, Pashepaho? I was hurt pretty bad, I guess. I believe I would have died there if your young men had not found me."
"Sure. Heap sick. Medicine man make you well."
Joe grinned weakly. He had not much faith in medicine men, but he cared little who saved him as long as he was getting well.
"I'm all right now, ain't I?" he asked anxiously, beginning to realize his great weakness and languor.
"Yep. Get li'l stronger. Eat heap meat."