But Cameron was not listening to him. He was hearing a jingle of spurs and bridle from down the trail and he knew that the Inspector had arrived. The old Indian, too, had caught the sound. His piercing eyes swiftly searched the face of the white man beside him. But Cameron, glancing quietly at him, continued to discuss the condition of the boy.
“Yes, you must get the doctor here at once. There is danger of blood-poisoning. The boy may lose his foot.” And he continued to describe the gruesome possibilities of neglect of that lacerated wound. As he rose from the couch the boy caught his arm.
“You' squaw good. Come see me,” he said. “Good—good.” The eager look in the fevered eye touched Cameron.
“All right, boy, I shall tell her,” he said. “Good-by!” He took the boy's hand in his. But the boy held it fast in a nervous grasp.
“You' squaw come—sure. Hurt here—bad.” He struck his forehead with his hand. “You' squaw come—make good.”
“All right,” said Cameron. “I shall bring her myself. Good-by!”
Together they passed out of the teepee, Cameron keeping close to the Indian's side and talking to him loudly and earnestly about the boy's condition, all the while listening to the Inspector's voice from behind the row of teepees.
“Ah!” he exclaimed aloud as they came in sight of the Inspector mounted on his horse. “Here is my friend, Inspector Dickson. Hello, Inspector!” he called out. “Come over here. We have a sick boy and I want you to help us.”
“Hello, Cameron!” cried the Inspector, riding up and dismounting. “What's up?”
Trotting Wolf and the other Indians slowly drew near.