"You would never guess it in a week, Bob," declared Sandy, with a smile; "but come with me. I am sure you can do him good, with your knowledge of surgery, which is going to make you a wonderful man some fine day."
"Surgery! What have you found, Sandy? Is there any one wounded near here?"
Sandy nodded his head.
"Yes, and pretty badly hurt, I fear."
"Not a white man, surely?" went on the other, falling into step with the impatient one.
"It is an Indian," replied Sandy, soberly.
"Perhaps one of those who were wounded in the fight. He may have come thus far on his way to his village, and given out," and now it was Bob who urged the pace, for his professional instinct had been aroused.
True, it was only an Indian who was injured, and in those days the settlers on the frontiers had a very low estimation of the red man as a human being. But then Bob was a boy, and his love for relieving pain amounted almost to a mania with him. Many a time had he set the broken limb of some little wild animal, across which he had accidentally come in the forest; and his operations had always been very successful; so much so that both father and mother were proud of him.
Sandy had apparently taken particular notice of the place where he had found the injured Indian, for he seemed to experience no trouble in leading the way back there.
"Here he is," he suddenly remarked, as he swept aside a screen of pawpaws.