“Chief Ti,” the farm owner remarked to Garry, “Chief Ti is a wonder. He’s got the man’s arm set—not a bad fracture, he says. No internal injuries, and what he gave that chap to take will put him on his feet in short order. Ti’s a wizard at doctoring.”
“He said I had troubles,” Garry exclaimed. “How did he know?”
“Don’t ask me,” the farmer retorted, smiling. “Old Ti is a queer one and he can read people the way you’d read a book. Can’t explain how he does it; but I can see he’s taken a liking to you—and just take my advice, buddy, and let him do what he wants, answer all his questions, and don’t argue about his ways. He’s Indian—but they say he is the closest thing to a real magician this side of the world. He showed me some things, once, like the Hindu fakirs do—creepy, but interesting.”
The Indian beckoned to Garry.
“You come,” he said, “I give you charm.”
“A charm!” Garry repeated. “What for?—” Then, recalling the advice just given him, he rose and followed the tall, dark figure. “I thank you, I mean to say—but I don’t see how you know——”
“I know.”
That was the end of the conversation. Garry, at the other’s sign, climbed into the old Ford beside the driving seat which Ti occupied.
Rapidly, skilfully, he was driven into the back country.
The ride was very short, it seamed. Good speed and clever handling of the wheel on a road free from traffic helped.