"And Bob couldn't keep from helping him; you know his failing, father. What we want now is a kettle in which to heat some water," remarked Sandy, making a movement to secure the implement he had in mind, and which, in company with other cooking utensils, dangled from the back of the leading horse.
"Stop! what is this you mean to do?" asked David Armstrong uneasily.
"Save the poor fellow's life, perhaps. He has an even chance if I can cleanse that ugly wound," replied Bob, meeting his father's eye steadily.
"But he must have been one of those savages who tried to rush our camp night before last; the wound is from one of our own bullets!" David went on, shaking his head, as though he did not wholly believe it right they should nurse a viper only to have him sting them.
Bob looked appealingly at his mother. Well he knew where to go for backing in a case like this; nor did he make any mistake.
"David, for shame! Would you let the poor boy die, even though his skin be different from ours? Do we learn this in the Good Book? Is it not written that we bind up the hurts of our enemies, and thus cover their heads with ashes of reproach? What if it were one of our dear lads, in an Indian village—would you wish him to be treated like a dog? We have come here to live, and it becomes us to set a Christian example to these poor heathen."
David Armstrong was far from being a hard man at heart. Like most of the early pioneers he had imbibed strong ideas concerning the heroic measures necessary to hold their own against the grievous perils that menaced them on every side. And, doubtless, he, in common with most of the men in the ranks of those who invaded the wilderness, believed that the "only good Indian was a dead Indian." But, as always, he was dominated by the sweet influence of his gentle wife.
"Boys, your mother knows best," he said, presently; "and it is better that you take pattern from her, than follow in my footsteps. Do what you think is right, and we will hope no evil follows."
Of course the young Indian had listened to all this talk closely. He might not understand what sentiment influenced the wife and mother; but he could see the noble pity that shone in her eyes as she bent above him.
Still, not by the slightest expression did he betray any satisfaction that may have passed through his heart at the knowledge that he was not to be ruthlessly put to death as he had anticipated. That would have ill become a warrior, which, boy though he seemed to be, he had so proudly proclaimed himself.