“Don’t fret yourself. Your enemies are gone; you are with friends now. I’ll take care of you.” “Who are you?” The bright eyes opened very wide. “Don’t you know me?” Bradford asked, anxiety in his tone and manner. “Yes—yes, I know you, Joe Farley. Of course I know my old friend. I was sure you would come back. But where is Bright Wing?” “He’ll be here soon,” answered Bradford, sighing deeply. “And Duke—surely _he_ hasn’t deserted me—where is Duke?” At mention of his name, the hound crept forward and licked his master’s hand. The dumb caress appeared to soothe and assure the sick man more than anything else could have done. For, with a sigh of contentment, he closed his eyes and whispered feebly: “Oh, yes! Duke, old fellow, you are still with me. You’ll not let the Winnebagoes return and scalp me. Watch over me, good dog, for I’m sleepy—sleepy——” Then he lay quiet. But his breathing was hurried; his pulse, bounding; and he continued to moan occasionally, and mumble and babble words that could not be understood. “The Winnebagoes!” Bradford muttered, scowling darkly. Arising, he began to hasten the preparations for departure. He partook of the parched corn and broiled venison the savages had prepared. Afterward he took a small portion of the tender meat, pressed its savory juices into a drinking cup, and poured the liquid down his patient’s throat. Ordering the litter brought to him, he stripped off his own hunting-shirt—unmindful of the chill atmosphere—and rolled it into a pillow for Douglas’s head. Carefully and tenderly placing his charge upon the springy bed, he covered him with a ragged, scarlet blanket which one of the Pottawatomies had worn around his shoulders; and selecting four of the most stalwart warriors and giving them minute instructions how to carry the litter, he ordered the band to start upon the return journey. “Do we go back to Wildcat Creek?” Long Gun inquired. “No,” Bradford answered, “we go to the villages of the Miamis, upon the Mississinewa.” “But are our people there?” “Yes, by this time.” “Ugh!” was the satisfied rejoinder. And Long Gun relapsed into his wonted silence. All day long, the band trudged through the sheeted woodland, stopping only at noon. The Indians occasionally conversed in guttural undertones, but Scar Face maintained a moody silence. A stillness as of death reigned in the forest, unbroken save for the sharp rattling rap of a woodpecker now and then, or the startling whir of a partridge’s wings.