“That is better,” said Cameron shortly. “We can drop her at the Thatchers' as we pass.”
In half an hour Cameron returned with the horses and the party proceeded on their way.
At the Piegan Reserve they were met by Chief Trotting Wolf himself and, without more than a single word of greeting, were led to the tent in which the sick boy lay. Beside him sat the old squaw in a corner of the tent, crooning a weird song as she swayed to and fro. The sick boy lay on a couch of skins, his eyes shining with fever, his foot festering and in a state of indescribable filth and his whole condition one of unspeakable wretchedness. Cameron found his gorge rise at the sight of the gangrenous ankle.
“This is a horrid business, Mandy,” he exclaimed. “This is not for you. Let us send for the doctor. That foot will surely have to come off. Don't mess with it. Let us have the doctor.”
But his wife, from the moment of her first sight of the wounded foot, forgot all but her mission of help.
“We must have a clean tent, Allan,” she said, “and plenty of hot water. Get the hot water first.”
Cameron turned to the Chief and said, “Hot water, quick!”
“Huh—good,” replied the Chief, and in a few moments returned with a small pail of luke-warm water.
“Oh,” cried Mandy, “it must be hot and we must have lots of it.”
“Hot,” cried Cameron to the Chief. “Big pail—hot—hot.”