“You’re a fine shot, Lass,” he rumbled, “but for a burst of power take an arm of old hickory like Gordon Duncan’s own.”
It was a great deal for the modest old man to say. That it was not too much was proven when, a moment later, his arrow, with the last available coil of yarn sailing fast and low, lost itself in the branches of the lone pine on the opposite shore. A shout of admiration and triumph came from the distant shore.
That the natives knew what was expected of them was soon shown. After a moment of wild scrambling in which dogs were trampled upon and sleds overturned, they began the business of tying together a long cord of their own. And this was of strong rawhide.
“If only the yarn holds,” Faye murmured breathlessly.
“Never fear,” said the old Scot. “’Twas a present to your mother from a French Canadian granny. Homespun from native wool it is. Nae bit o’ shoddy there!”
That the curious creature who had sent Johnny’s arrows crashing into the gaunt bear’s side, and so beyond doubt saved the boy’s life, had not carried him that distance to his own rude cabin without purpose, was shown the moment he arrived there. What that purpose might be remained locked within his own misshapen breast.
Having entered his cabin, he took down first a rude soapstone jar of water, and second a skin bottle half filled with some liquid.
After feeling the boy over carefully, possibly for broken bones, he sat up with a grunt of apparent satisfaction. He next poured the water over Johnny’s neck and bare shoulders. And now, with beady eyes searching for signs of life, he removed the wooden stopper from the leather bottle and poured a part of its contents down the boy’s throat.
What was this strange liquid? Native medicine, beyond doubt. Carefully selected leaves, stems, roots and bulbs, boiled over a slow fire perhaps. Who knows? That it was a potent drug one was soon enough to know. Two minutes had not passed before the boy groaned, moved, sat up, stared about him, then asked in a dazed fashion:
“Where am I?”