“Have you been wounded!” asked the girl, quickly.
“No; only starved!” returned Tom, a slight smile of humour flickering for a second on his pale face even in that hour of his extremity.
“Have the Indians given you anything to eat since they found you?”
“They have tried to, but what they offered me was dry and tough; I could not get it down.”
The girl rose promptly. “Tolly, fetch me some water and make a fire. Quick!” she said, and going up to an Indian, coolly drew from its sheath his scalping-knife, with which she cut Tolly’s bonds. The savage evidently believed that such a creature could not possibly do evil, for he made no motion whatever to check her. Then, without a word more, she went to the saddle-bags on the obstinate horse, and, opening one of them, took out some soft sugar. The savage who held the horse made no objection. Indeed, from that moment the whole band stood silently by, observing the pretty maiden and the active boy as they moved about, regardless of everything but the work in hand.
The Rose of Oregon constituted herself a sick-nurse on that occasion with marvellous facility. True, she knew nothing whatever about the duties of a sick-nurse or a doctor, for her father was one of those fortunate men who are never ill, but her native tact and energy sufficed. It was not her nature to stand by inactive when anything urgent had to be done. If she knew not what to do, and no one else did, she was sure to attempt something. Whether sugar-and-water was the best food for a starving man she knew not, but she did know—at least she thought—that the starvation ought to be checked without delay.
“Here, Mr Brixton, sip a little of this,” she said, going down on her knees, and putting a tin mug to the patient’s mouth.
Poor Tom would have sipped prussic acid cheerfully from her hand! He obeyed, and seemed to like it.
“Now, a little more.”
“God bless you, dear girl!” murmured Tom, as he sipped a little more.