At this juncture Cameron, facing about, saw within a few feet of him the Indian whose capture he was enlisted to secure.
“Hello!” he cried, as if suddenly recognizing him. “How is the boy?”
“Good,” said the Indian with grave dignity. “He sick here,” touching his head.
“Ah! Fever, I suppose,” replied Cameron. “Take me to see him.”
The Indian led the way to the teepee that stood slightly apart from the others.
Inside the teepee upon some skins and blankets lay the boy, whose bright eyes and flushed cheeks proclaimed fever. An old squaw, bent in form and wrinkled in face, crouched at the end of the couch, her eyes gleaming like beads of black glass in her mahogany face.
“How is the foot to-day?” cried Allan. “Pain bad?”
“Huh!” grunted the lad, and remained perfectly motionless but for the restless glittering eyes that followed every movement of his father.
“You want the doctor here,” said Cameron in a serious tone, kneeling beside the couch. “That boy is in a high fever. And you can't get him too quick. Better send a boy to the Fort and get the Police doctor. How did you sleep last night?” he inquired of the lad.
“No sleep,” said his father. “Go this way—this way,” throwing his arms about his head. “Talk, talk, talk.”