The boy’s eyes went round the circle of faces till they came to the Indian girl’s, then rested there. She smiled at him, and took the cup from his father’s hand.
“Drink it,” she said in a quiet voice. “My little boy drinks it. It will do you good.” He drank it up at once.
“Where’s Joseph?” he asked suddenly when he had lain some minutes quietly. “He went over too, didn’t he?” Joseph was the name of his pinto pony, so called in Scriptural reminiscence of the earliest recorded Joseph, with his coat of many colours.
“He’s perfectly all right—clumsy little beggar,” said his father.
“And the baby?” said Paul, sitting bolt upright and wide awake.
“He is here and safe,” replied the mother. “Your father saved him,” she added in a voice that somehow carried a thrilling tone.
“Did you, Daddy? That was fine.”
“Pshaw! I just jerked the baby free from Joseph’s feet,” answered his father almost gruffly.
“Good man! Smart man!” said the chief. “Jump like deer!”
“I guess the angels were smarter’n you, Daddy,” observed the boy dreamily.