Afraid of his chief, the buck now brought Midnight.
Rain-in-the-face saddled and bridled him for the scout, and placed him in the saddle, at the same time motioning to a young, light brave to mount behind him, and hold him on, for Buffalo Bill was too weak from loss of blood to keep his seat unaided.
Then up into the hills the party went, and, after a ride of thirty miles, with frequent stops on account of the scout, the Indians arrived in their camp.
There the chief carried his paleface friend to his own tepee, and ordered his squaw to do all she could for his comfort, while he went to bring the medicine man of the tribe.
The wound, the loss of blood, and the long ride to the Indian camp, brought on fever and delirium, and for weeks Buffalo Bill lay at the point of death.
All this time he was nursed tenderly by the Indians, in whose hearts, as soon as they knew how he had befriended their chief’s son in the past, arose pity for him, while they had already felt admiration for his courage.
The strong constitution of the scout carried him safely through, and he arose from his bed of skins in an Indian tepee, restored to health once more, and with his wound almost well, under the treatment of the medicine chief, who was certainly skilled in the healing of injuries from firearms and knives.
As soon as he was able to ride, Buffalo Bill thanked the chief for his kindness to him, and presented him with one of his revolvers and a watch, and let him into the secret of winding it up—it was a stem-winder—and taught him how to tell time, adding:
“There’ll be no excuse for you now to be behind time in going into a fight, if you’ll only keep her wound up.”