To Cris Carrol the sombre forest, the lonely savannah, or the trackless swamp, were the congenial homes, and bitterly he adjured the compulsory sojourn of a few days every year amongst those to whom society is a pleasure.
It was always a joyful day to him when he could shoulder his rifle, sling his game bag over his shoulder, and start anew upon his lonely explorations.
When Warren brought the wounded Indian to Carrol’s rude hut, the old backwoodsman accepted the responsibility, and set himself to the task of healing his wounds with alacrity.
Nelatu was known to him, and he was always disposed to be a friend to the red man.
“No, of course not,” said he to Warren, in answer to his explanation; “I don’t see as how you could take the red-skin up to the governor’s house. Old dad wouldn’t say no, but he’d look mighty like wishin’ to. No, Warren, lad, you’ve done the right thing this time, and no mistake, and that there’s sayin’ more nor I would always say. Leave the boy to me. Bless you, he’ll be all right in a day or two, thanks to a good constitution, along of living like a nat’ral being, and not like one of them city fellows as must try and make ’emselves unhealthy by sleepin’ in beds, and keeping warm by sittin’ aside of stoves, as if dried leaves and dried sticks warn’t enough for ’em.”
Carrol’s skill as a physician was little short of marvellous.
He compounded and prepared medicines according to unwritten prescriptions, and used the oddest materials; not alone herbs and roots, but earths and clays were laid under contribution.
A few days of this forest doctoring worked wonders in Nelatu, and before a week was over he was able to sit at the back door of the hunter’s dwelling, basking himself in the sun.
Carrol, who had been in a fever of anxiety greater even than his patient, was in high glee at this.
After giving the Indian youth a preparation to allay his thirst, he was on the point of packing up his traps to start upon one of his expeditions, when he saw an individual approaching his cabin from the front.