Hit through the head, the animal turned, with a vicious snarl, to meet its new enemy. It took a few rapid bounds in the direction from which the shot had come, and then rolled over on its side—stone-dead. It had struggled for life and revenge with desperate tenacity, but a bullet through the brain had settled it at last.
Buffalo Bill, with a smoking rifle in his hand, stepped out from behind a tree and walked toward the prostrate Indian, glancing at the body of the bear as he passed it, to make sure that it was really dead.
As he approached, the young Indian lifted himself slowly and painfully upon his elbow, and said:
“Brother, I thank you.”
Then, as he tried to rise to his feet, he was overcome by the loss of blood from the many wounds inflicted upon him by the claws of the bear, and he sank back unconscious.
Buffalo Bill promptly attended to his injuries, bandaging the wounds and stopping the flow of blood as cleverly as any surgeon could have done.
This accomplished, he forced some brandy and water from his flask between the Indian’s teeth, and gradually brought him back to consciousness.
“Let my brother rest quietly, so that his wounds will not reopen,” said Buffalo Bill, as Red Cloud opened his eyes and gazed gratefully at him. The Indian, trained in a severe school of discipline, did as he was bidden. Buffalo Bill would not allow him even to talk until his faintness had passed away.
The border king threw fresh twigs on the fire and made some strong broth, which Red Cloud drank eagerly.