Warren instantly flung off his coat, tore one of the sleeves from his shirt, and commenced staunching the blood.
After a time it ceased to flow, and then tearing off the second sleeve, with his braces knotted together, he bound up the wound.
The wounded youth slowly recovered consciousness, and, looking gratefully up into his face, pressed the hand of his deliverer.
“Nelatu owes Warren life. He will some day show his gratitude.”
“Don’t think of that now. Tell me what has happened? I heard your cry, and hastened to your assistance.”
“Not Nelatu’s cry,” responded the Indian, with a faint blush of pride suffusing his face. “Nelatu is the son of a chief. He knows how to die without showing himself a woman. It was Red Wolf who cried out.”
“Red Wolf!”
“Yes; Red Wolf is a coward—a squaw; ’twas he who cried out.”
“He will never cry out again. Look there!” said Warren, pointing to the lifeless corpse that lay near.
Nelatu had not yet seen it. Unconscious of what had transpired, he believed that Red Wolf, supposing him dead, had gone away from the spot.