Jim went to fetch it, while I, still believing the Navvy to be dangerously hurt, knelt by him and pulled up his shirt, exposing the hollow of his brown back.
"Here we are," said Jim, returning on the run with the bottle.
"Pour some on," replied Emett.
Jim removed the cork and soused the liniment all over the Indian's back.
"Don't waste it," remonstrated Emett, starting to rub Navvy's back.
Then occurred a most extraordinary thing. A convulsion seemed to quiver through the Indian's body; he rose at a single leap, and uttering a wild, piercing yell broke into a run. I never saw an Indian or anybody else run so fleetly. Yell after yell pealed back to us.
Absolutely dumfounded we all gazed at each other.
"That's your dead Indian!" ejaculated Jim.
"What the hell!" exclaimed Emett, who seldom used such language.