"Give it to him."
"Yes," said Jerry; "give it to me."
The Indian held the cup to the little chap's lips. One, two, three
minutes passed. The boy had swallowed every drop. Then the Indian laid
him flat on the grass. For a moment his suffering eyes looked into those
of his brother, then he glanced at the sky, the trees, the far horizon,
the half-obliterated buffalo trail. Then his lids drooped, his hands
twitched, he lay utterly unconscious.
With a rapidity hardly believable in an Indian, Five Feathers skinned
off the boy's sock, ran his lithe fingers about the ankle, clicked the
bone into place, splinted and bandaged it like an expert surgeon; but,
with all his haste, it was completed none too soon. Jerry's eyes slowly
opened, to see Billy smiling down at him, and Five Feathers standing
calmly by his side.
"Bully, Jerry! Your ankle is all set and bandaged. How do you feel?"
asked his brother, a little shakily.
"Just tired," said the boy. "Tired, but no pain. Oh, I wish I could have
stayed!"
"Stayed where?" demanded Billy.
"With the scarlet flowers!" whispered Jerry.
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