There was no doubt about it, for the Indians no longer kept pushing forward. To make a camp, when far from home, was an easy matter for these hardy braves, accustomed, as they were, to enduring all manner of hardships with the stoicism that has always distinguished their race.
There were no tents to erect, no packs to undo, and getting the meal was a most primitive operation, since it would probably consist of cooking some sort of meat by thrusting it in the flames at the end of long sticks of wood.
When some of the braves started to fasten the prisoners to two trees that grew close together, Dick thought it about time to begin making friends. Accordingly he called to Lascelles to approach, as he had a communication to make that might strike him favorably.
“I have had some success in binding up gun-shot wounds,” Dick told him, “and if I was given a chance I believe I could do that poor fellow some good. He may bleed to death unless something is done.”
The wily Frenchman eyed him keenly.
“Zat sounds very good, but how am I to know zat you vill not try to escape if ze bonds zey are remove?” he demanded suspiciously.
“I will give you my promise not to attempt anything of the sort as long as my hands are free,” Dick assured him. “Besides, it would be folly to try to run away when you have your gun, and they their bows and arrows handy. Come, loosen my hands and let me see what I can do.”
Lascelles made sure to get the consent of the chief before he would touch the thongs, but he finally did so. Some of the Indians, learning that the paleface boy was a medicine man among his people, watched with some interest to see how he treated the wound of their companion.
Dick had in truth been unusually successful in handling this particular form of injury, and knew about how it should be treated. He had scant material with which to work, but his deft fingers made up in part for the want of other things.
The salve which he produced from his ditty bag was home-made, for his mother knew all about medicinal herbs and their values.