Dick pressed him to sit down, and the brave did so, though with increasing wonder. He speedily realized, however, what the white boys meant to do, and without offering any remonstrance continued silently to watch their labor, as they proceeded to look after his injuries. Roger fetched his hat full of cool water from a running brook close by, and one by one Dick washed the numerous scratches and ugly furrows where those wolfish fangs had torn the flesh of the stoical brave's lower limbs. He gave no sign of flinching, though the pain must have been more than a trifle. The boys knew enough of Indian character to feel sure that, if it had been ten times as severe, he would have calmly endured it, otherwise he could not have claimed the right to wear the feather they could see in his scalplock, and which signified that he was a warrior, or brave. Finally the task was completed. There had been nothing further heard from the remnant of the baffled wolf pack all this while, proving that the loss of their powerful leaders must have taken the last bit of courage from the animals, known never to be very brave. All the while the Sioux continued to keep those black eyes of his glued on Dick Armstrong. It was as though he was in search of some one and had made up his mind that, since there could be no other paleface boys within a thousand miles of the spot, these must be the ones he had been commissioned to find. Just about the time Dick, with another of his rare smiles, indicated that the work of looking after his injuries had been completed, the Sioux fumbled in his snake-skin ditty bag, where he kept his little stock of pemmican, and numerous other necessary articles, perhaps his war paint as well. To the astonishment of the boys he drew out a small roll of birch bark, secured far to the north, and handed it to Dick. Filled with curiosity, the boy opened it with trembling fingers, to find, just as he had anticipated, that it was covered with a series of queer characters, painted after the Indian fashion and representing men and animals. "It's Indian picture writing, you see, Roger!" Dick declared, "and must be meant for us, or else this brave would not give it over. He has been sent here from the far-away Sioux village to find us, and deliver a message." "Yes," added Roger, excitedly. "And look, Dick, there is what seems to be the awkward but plain picture of a beaver at the end of the message. It must have been sent by our good friend, the chief of the Sioux." "You are right that far, Roger, for it is meant to be the signature of Beaver Tail, himself. Now to see if we can make out what it says!" CHAPTER V WHAT THE PICTURE WRITING TOLD IT was with the utmost eagerness that the two boys studied the strange characters depicted on the strip of bark. The hand that had drawn them there must have been accustomed to the task, and doubtless the story the message was meant to tell could have been easily read by the eyes of any Indian.