“There,” said Robert, pointing to Deerfoot. “Your gun landed in the water and Deerfoot rescued it for you.” The Indian was busily engaged in cleaning and drying Joseph’s rifle, but as Robert spoke he looked up from his task.
“Gun go off,” he said quietly.
“What do you mean?” cried Joseph.
“See,” said Deerfoot, at the same time pointing to his left sleeve. The Indian’s hunting shirt showed a ragged hole, while on it were spots of blood.
“You mean it went off and hit you?” exclaimed Robert. “I didn’t know that, Deerfoot. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Ugh,” grunted the Indian in his non-committal manner.
“Let me see it,” demanded Joseph in alarm as he grasped Deerfoot by the arm and pulled up his sleeve. The bullet had grazed the flesh of the forearm, breaking the skin, but doing no serious hurt.
“Whew!” gasped Joseph. “It’s a lucky thing it didn’t kill you, Deerfoot. Certainly it isn’t my fault that you’re alive now. Why aren’t you angry with me?”
“No your fault,” replied the Indian, gazing into the eyes of his young white friend. Deerfoot, like the rest of his race, disliked to display his emotions if it could be avoided; but the Pottowattomie often had a hard task to conceal his affection for the two young brothers.
“What would we ever do if we lost you?” cried Joseph. “You’re all we have left now, Deerfoot.”