Seeing their two boys standing at a certain point, David Armstrong, his good wife, and Kate, leading the two horses, made toward them. From the fact that there was already quite a heap of firewood piled up they took it for granted that Bob wished them to camp on that particular spot for some reason or other. Suddenly Kate gave utterance to a bubbling cry of alarm. "What is it!" demanded her father, startled, since he could only imagine that the young girl might have turned her ankle at just the last stage of their long journey. "Look behind the boys, father! An Indian!" she exclaimed, pointing a trembling finger toward Bob. David, too, discovered the form just at that moment, and was also visibly disturbed. But he noticed that both boys were showing not the least sign of any alarm, and from that understood there could be no danger. Perhaps, also, his renewed confidence arose from the fact that the Indian was lying on his back, and not in the act of creeping forward, as if intent on sinking his tomahawk into the bodies of the lads. "What is this, Bob, Sandy?" he asked, as he stood over the form of the Shawanee, who met his gaze without a flicker of emotion. "We found the poor fellow near by, father. He is wounded, and was slowly bleeding to death," said Bob hastily, and not a little anxiously. "And Bob couldn't keep from helping him; you know his failing, father. What we want now is a kettle in which to heat some water," remarked Sandy, making a movement to secure the implement he had in mind, and which, in company with other cooking utensils, dangled from the back of the leading horse. "Stop! what is this you mean to do?" asked David Armstrong uneasily. "Save the poor fellow's life, perhaps. He has an even chance if I can cleanse that ugly wound," replied Bob, meeting his father's eye steadily. "But he must have been one of those savages who tried to rush our camp night before last; the wound is from one of our own bullets!" David went on, shaking his head, as though he did not wholly believe it right they should nurse a viper only to have him sting them. Bob looked appealingly at his mother. Well he knew where to go for backing in a case like this; nor did he make any mistake. "David, for shame! Would you let the poor boy die, even though his skin be different from ours? Do we learn this in the Good Book? Is it not written that we bind up the hurts of our enemies, and thus cover their heads with ashes of reproach? What if it were one of our dear lads, in an Indian village--would you wish him to be treated like a dog? We have come here to live, and it becomes us to set a Christian example to these poor heathen."