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Jack explained.
"I cure, me, if you like. Root good for bad eye grows here, north," said
the Chippewa.
"Better let him try," urged Larry. "He knows all these things. His
flower seeds have evidently put the kibosh on the man in the mackinaw."
"I get root, you try. No harm," said the Indian. "You scairt put in your
eye, then just smell it, and tie round your head."
"I'll try it, by all means," asserted Jack.
So, at noon, while Larry and Jack cooked the dinner, Fox-Foot penetrated
the woods, returning with some crooked little brown roots, which he
bound about Jack's forehead and made him inhale. They exuded a peculiar
sweetish odor, that seemed to wash the eyeball like water, and when the
afternoon was half spent, Jack remarked that his eyelids had ceased to
smart.
"One week, maybe, be all right," answered the Indian. And his words
proved correct. Daily he gathered fresh roots, treating Jack's eyes as
skilfully as the oldest medicine man of his tribe could have done, until
the poor red rims faded white, and the bloodshot eyeballs grew clear
and bluish.


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