Through Forest and Stream Part 22

"No, sir," cried Pete; "they cut away across the river, all but that chap that was. .h.i.t."

"Was one hit?" said my uncle eagerly.

"Yes, sir; he's lying down yonder by the water, and he's got our chopper."

"What?"

"I come upon him lying bleeding, and as soon as he saw me he began to put an arrow on his bow-string; but I hit him on the nose, broke his bow in two, and chucked his arrows in the river. He must have come before, and sneaked our old axe."

"Then he's there now?"

"Yes, sir; he can't run. You winged him--I mean legged. But I've got our chopper again."

"Sit still, Nat," said my uncle. "Here, Pete, carry my gun, and you, Cross, come and cover me. I can't leave the poor wretch like that."

I saw Cross frown as he followed my uncle, and Pete stopped for a moment behind with me.

"I mustn't stop, Master Nat," he said. "I am sorry, sir, but don't you be a downhearted 'un. I shan't be long. I say: who was right about the axe?"

I nodded my thanks to him, and then sat back, in acute pain, thinking about the sudden change in the state of our affairs, and of how necessary it would be for us to retreat into a safer part of the country. It was all so unexpected and so vexatious, just as in all probability we might be on the point of discovering the birds we sought.

I was musing in a half-faint way, the pain and shock having made me feel very sick, when I heard the sounds of the returning party, and to my surprise they brought in the wounded Indian on Cross's back, the poor fellow being in a half-fainting condition from a frightful wound in the right thigh.

As he was laid down on his back he began to come-to, and looked wildly round, while when he saw my uncle approach him knife in hand, he set his teeth and made a fierce attempt to rise.

But Cross was holding him from behind, and the poor fellow was helpless.

He evidently believed that his enemy was about to put him to death, and on finding that he could not help himself he seemed ready to calmly accept his fate, for he fixed his eyes upon my uncle with a bitter, contemptuous smile, and then folded his arms and lay there like an image cast in bronze.

It was not a fierce countenance, being smooth, large-eyed, and disposed to be effeminate and plump, while when my uncle busied himself over the terrible wound with the knife, and must have given the man excruciating pain, he did not even wince, but kept gazing hard at his surgeon who tortured him, as if proud and defiant to the last.

His expression only began to change when he saw the knife laid aside and Pete bring some water in the tin for my uncle to bathe the wound; and now it was full of wonder as the place was covered with lint from the pocket-book, and then carefully bandaged from the supply ready against accidents.

"There, my fine fellow," said my uncle at last; "now if you keep quiet, you being a healthy fellow, young and strong, that bad wound will soon heal. If you had left us alone you would not have got it. You don't understand, of course; but you must lie still."

The Indian's countenance changed more than ever. He had fully grasped the fact that he was not to be slain, and also that his wound had been carefully dressed, and with his fierce aspect completely gone, he took hold of the hand with which my uncle was pressing him back to lie still, and held it against his forehead, smiling up at him the while; and then he sank back and closed his eyes.

"It's a bad wound, Nat, but he'll get over it. That must have been your shot."

"Why not yours?" I said. "I couldn't shoot with that arrow through me."

"But you did, for it was done with the big swan pellets, and I had nothing but dust shot in my gun, for the little birds."

"Oh!" I cried wonderingly.

"Ah, that's why you made that poor fellow cry."

As I lay and thought afterwards I was to my dissatisfaction convinced that mine had been the hand which fired the shot, and the knowledge of this somehow made me feel a kind of sympathy for the savage who lay there far more badly wounded than I, while the carpenter and my uncle, with Pete's help, built up a kind of semi-circular hedge as a defence around us.

"We can't begin our retreat with you in that condition, Nat," my uncle said, "and I don't like to be driven away by a little party of ruffians like these."

"I could walk," I said.

"I know that," he replied curtly; "walk yourself into a state, of fever, and make your wound go bad. Look at that fellow; Nature teaches him what to do--lie still--curl up like an animal, till his injury heals.

What are you thinking about?"

"That poor fellow's wound."

"Poor fellow! Possibly the savage who sent that arrow through your shoulder. You're a rum fellow, Nat."

"Well, you were just as sympathetic, uncle," I said. "See how you dressed his wound, just as if he were a friend."

"No, I did not, Nat," he said, smiling. "I dressed him just as a surgeon should a wounded patient. By the way, he did not seem to bear any malice."

"Perhaps he will, uncle, when he knows I shot him."

"Don't tell him, then. We'll all share the blame."

"So you mean to stop here, then?" I said.

"Yes, certainly, for the present. Why, if we were to begin to pack up, I daresay the next thing we should see would be a flock of quetzals flying about."

"But suppose a whole tribe of Indians attack us?"

"Not likely, Nat. These people are few and greatly scattered; but if we are attacked we shall have to give the poor wretches a scaring with a few charges of shot--I mean distant charges, scattered, not fired at close quarters like yours."

The day pa.s.sed slowly by, with my three companions working away to strengthen our little camp, and the wounded Indian sleeping. I, too, dropped off for an hour during the great heat of the late afternoon, and awoke feeling feverish and strange. But Pete was set to bathe my forehead with water, and the rapid evaporation made my head comparatively cool and pleasant, so much so that my uncle smiled.

"You're going on all right, Nat," he said, "and the wound will soon grow easier."

The sun had pa.s.sed over to the west, and was behind the cliff, leaving us well in shelter; the sound of the rus.h.i.+ng water below sounded cool and pleasant, and I was lying back watching the wounded Indian--Carib, my uncle called him--when all at once there came a low howl from the thicket on the other side of the river.

"What's that! One of the howling monkeys?" I said to uncle.

"No," he said softly, and I saw him reach out his hand slowly for his gun. "Watch my patient."

I turned my eyes to where the man lay, and saw that he had raised his head, and was gazing keenly in the direction whence the cry had come.

The next minute the howl was repeated, and it had hardly died out when it arose again, but this time from our prisoner, who placed his hands to his lips and sent forth a mournful cry.

Then it was answered from the other side, and the Carib turned excitedly to us, talking rapidly, but without our being able to comprehend a word.

One thing, though, was evident--the poor fellow was highly excited, and he smiled and chattered at us, before repeating the cry, which was again answered, and then a kind of duet was kept up, with the distance and time between the calls growing shorter minute by minute.

"This is all very well," said Cross softly, "but he's bringing on his Injun mates. You'll tell us when to fire, sir?"

"Yes, if there is any need," said my uncle. "Be ready; that is all."

Our prisoner watched us excitedly, and evidently grasped what was meant, for he began to talk to us eagerly, and then pointed downward again and again.