“My poor boy!” cried Mandy, throwing her arms round about him, and, steadying him as he let his rifle fall, let him sink slowly to the ground.
“You cowards!” cried Moira, seizing the rifle that the boy had dropped and springing to the doctor's side. “Look at what you have done!” She turned and pointed indignantly to the swooning boy.
With an exclamation of wrath the doctor stepped back to Mandy's aid, forgetful of the threatening Indians and mindful only of his patient. Quickly he sprang into the tent, returning with a stimulating remedy, bent over the boy and worked with him till he came back again to life.
Once more the Chief, who with the Indians had been gazing upon this scene, turned and spoke to his band, this time in tones of quiet dignity, pointing to the little group behind him. Silent and subdued the Indians listened, their quick impulses like those of children stirred to sympathy for the lad and for those who would aid him. Gradually the crowd drew off, separating into groups and gathering about the various fires. For the time the danger was over.
Between them Dr. Martin and the Chief carried the boy into the tent and laid him on his bed.
“What sort of beasts have you got out there anyway?” said the doctor, facing the Chief abruptly.
“Him drink bad whisky,” answered the Chief, tipping up his hand. “Him crazee,” touching his head with his forefinger.
“Crazy! Well, I should say. What they want is a few ounces of lead.”
The Chief made no reply, but stood with his eyes turned admiringly upon Moira's face.
“Squaw—him good,” he said, pointing to the girl. “No 'fraid—much brave—good.”