Crawford swayed, then sank down weakly; Maclish had escaped him this time, and with good reason. He felt the chief running deft hands over his body, rubbing bear-grease from a little pouch into the burned skin, binding up a knife-slash across his ribs whose flow of blood had ebbed out his strength and robbed him of his prey. Presently Crawford rallied and returned these services, bandaging that frightful slash across the chief’s thigh and learning how Le Talon had come to intervene at so opportune a moment. The Mohegan had come with one party of Dacotah, while Frontin led another, sent by the Star Woman to meet Perrot and Crawford. Sighting the glow of Maclish’s fire on the sky, the Mohegan had left his party to investigate. There had been no time to return and get the Dacotah--therefore he had acted after his own fashion. Now, rising, the chief collected the trophies which were his. One Stone Man had fallen to his musket, two to his knife. When he came to the groaning warrior whom Crawford had gripped, he calmly added the fourth scalp to his belt. Then he limped back. “Ready! My brother’s medicine is very strong. Where is Metaminens?” Crawford rose, steadied himself under the giddy swirl of pain. “I left him with Black Kettle and came on--they are behind the Assiniboines. He is well, but too weak to travel.” Crawford broke off in curses at thought of how Maclish had escaped him. Hopeless abandon came upon him, and with every movement sending fresh torture through his body, he made a brief gesture to the redskin. “Leave me. Go on by yourself. No use trying to get away.” Le Talon, in one fierce glance, comprehended the situation. He smiled grimly. “Very well, my brother shall see that a chief of the Loup nation does not fear to die with him.” “Plague take you!” Crawford laughed suddenly. “Lead the way, Sagamore, and I’ll follow. You’re right; I’ll not whine like a sick dog because my hide is sore. After all, I have the Star of Dreams again!” The chief picked up a musket, used it as a staff, and set out into the darkness. The words of the Mohegan had summoned up all Crawford’s iron will, and he drove himself onward. His upper body was a mass of sears and blisters, his skin cracked and blackened, his flesh scorched; the least movement sent quivers of agony through every complaining muscle and the knife-wound across his ribs had let out much of his strength. He set will to conquer flesh, and succeeded, though every slash of whipping tree-limbs and bushes in the darkness brought new pain. Old Le Talon was scarce in better shape. That one knife-slash had nearly hamstrung his leg and each step was dragging torture, yet the grim chief forged ahead in silence, feeling his way by instinct toward the distant camp he had left.