“Goot,” ejaculated Gibault, pausing in his manipulation of the artist, “now you can do!”
“Capital; thanks, I feel quite strong again.”
“I say, Gibault,” observed March ruefully, “they’ve almost sawed through the skin o’ my ankle. I’ve no left foot at all, as far as feelin’ goes.”
“Hah! me boy, ’tis well you have foot left, though you not feel left foot! Let me see.”
“That’s it, Gibault, rub away; if your jokes were as good as your surgery you’d be too good, a long way, for the backwoods.”
By dint of chafing and rubbing and leaping and stamping, the whole party were soon restored to a serviceable condition, after which they set about active preparations for departure.
First, they ransacked the tents, where they discovered all the guns that had been taken from Bertram’s party. These they tied up in a bundle, after each had secured one for his own use. Among them the artist found, to his intense delight, his own double-barrelled gun, the loss of which he had mourned most sincerely.
Next, they secured the horses, which, being hobbled, as we have said elsewhere, were easily caught. Then the powder-horns and shot-belts of Bertram’s party were found, and, being full of ammunition, were slung across their shoulders forthwith. Among other things belonging to the same party were discovered a number of blankets, some tea and sugar, and a variety of other useful articles, besides several packs of furs; all of which were made up into portable bundles that could be easily carried at their saddle-bows. The supply of everything was so ample that it was not necessary to touch a single article belonging to the Indians.
This was a matter of much satisfaction to Redhand, who wished to show these unfortunate children of the wilderness that there were at least some white trappers who were actuated by different and kindlier feelings than many who sought their livelihood in those regions.
“Hullo! wot have we here?” cried Big Waller, who was poking inquisitively about among the tents, to the consternation of the poor Indian children who lay huddled up in their rabbit-skin blankets, trembling from head to foot, and expecting to be scalped forthwith—such of them, at least, as were old enough to expect anything. “Here’s your blunderbusses, I guess, mister.”