Ned did not stay unconscious long. He was half-conscious. He dimly heard the pleading voice of little Mary, he felt her caresses, he was aware that the shots and the shouts and the whoops continued, he felt the throbbing pain of his wound, he felt himself lifted and carried, lax, and deposited again; and he felt a sharper, sickening agony as fingers manipulated the arrow, while a kindly voice soothed him. That must be the surgeon, Dr. Lippincott. He shut his lips firmly, not even to groan. It was the part of the soldier to bear pain; and if he was only a boy, he also was a soldier. A “snip” sounded, upon the arrow, and for a moment the shock was almost too much to stand. Then the shaft was gently but firmly slipped from the hole. The surgeon had cut off the head and had drawn the arrow out backward, for the point was of course barbed. “You’ll do nicely, my lad,” spoke the surgeon. “It’s only a flesh wound. It followed outside the skull. Good!” Soft touch applied a bandage. “Can’t you see, Ned? Please see!” implored little Mary. Ned rallied and opened his one eye. He was bolstered up, on a heap of buffalo-robes. Mary was trying to hug him. He hugged Mary. They were in an open space amidst the tipis, where the field hospital had been established. Around-about them were other wounded soldiers. Colonel Barnitz was lying near, as pale as if dead. Doctor Lippincott and his assistants were busy here and there. The rattle of rifle and carbine, the quick orders, the defiant yells, betokened desperate battle. The strains of “Garryowen” sounded wild and inspiring, as the band, posted on a little knoll by the village, played on and on. But higher, more piercing, penetrating all the clamor, not unlike the howl of wolves rose an incessant chant—the mourning wail of sorrowing squaws. The charge had been successful. The troops had the village. Now the surrounding hills were alive with Indians; the soldiers were in the center; and the day was not yet noon.