“Bend low and follow me, Deerfoot,” cried Robert, loosing his hold on the Pottowattomie’s arm. He started quickly toward the spot where Joseph was lying and Deerfoot came close behind him. It was a new experience for Robert to be giving orders to his redskinned friend, but the young frontiersman enjoyed it none the less on that account. Deerfoot was rapidly regaining his strength and composure, however, and Robert’s supremacy threatened to be shortlived.
Through the storm of leaden death they ran. A few seconds, which seemed like hours to the young pioneer-soldier, elapsed, and they arrived at the place where Joseph was lying.
“Take his head. I’ll take his feet,” cried Robert. Joseph made no objection and merely groaned as he was lifted from the ground and borne rapidly in the direction of his own forces and of safety.
“Stop here,” ordered Robert sharply, as they came to the fallen log behind which he and his brother had taken refuge, a few moments before. They came to an abrupt halt and as tenderly as possible placed Joseph upon the ground.
“How do you feel, Joe?” asked Robert, bending anxiously over his brother.
“Pretty weak,” replied Joseph in a husky voice. His face was white and drawn with pain, but his jaw was set and all his will power was being exerted.
“He bleed much,” exclaimed Deerfoot. “Me fix him.” He quickly tore a strip from his hunting shirt and fastened it around Joseph’s leg, just above the wound. Exerting all his strength he then drew the bandage as tightly as he was able so that the blood would be held back and as little as possible should escape. Joseph seemed to be suffering more pain as time went on. The first shock of the bullet had stunned him so that his senses mostly were dulled to any feeling of physical suffering. Not so now, however, for try as he might he could not help giving evidence that he was in agony.
“That’s better, Deerfoot,” Robert remarked. “Do you think he is wounded badly?”
“No,” replied Deerfoot shortly. “He bleed bad but not serious.” He had slit Joseph’s trousers up the side so that the wound was exposed to view. The bullet had passed through the fleshy part of the leg, tearing an ugly hole, but it was easy to be seen that the trouble was not likely to be lasting.
“He’s bled enough at any rate,” exclaimed Robert grimly. “You look almost as though you had one red trouser leg, Joe. Is that the new style?”