But at the first step he limped and groaned. “Lord!” he muttered. “I done bust my feet mighty bad somehow. But I gwine to git to Mars’ Jack. Yes, suh, I certainly am.” With many groans he made his way across the ground to Jack’s side. “Mars’ Jack! Mars’ Jack!” he cried. “You ain’t dead, is you?” The sound of his voice roused Jack and he opened his eyes. Thankfully Alagwa saw that he made no attempt to rise. “Hello, Cato!” he mumbled. “Is that you? No, I’m not dead. I’m all right. How about you, Cato?” “I’se all right, Mars’ Jack, ’cep’n that my feet hurts mighty bad. Dat Injun hit me a whack over the head, and that hurts. But seems like my feet hurts wusser.” Jack’s eyes twinkled. “You must have been standing on a stone when that Indian hit you over the head,” he said. “I reckon he drove your feet down on the stone mighty hard.” Jack laughed weakly. Then suddenly an expression of terror came into his face and his whole form seemed to shrink and crumble. When Alagwa reached his side he was unconscious. Long but vainly the girl worked over him. He did not revive and an icy cold hand seemed to close about her heart. From her childhood she had been familiar with wounds. With the Shawnees, as with most other Indians, it was a point of honor to leave no wounded friend upon the battlefield. At whatever cost, for whatever distance, they brought home all who survived the sharp deadly struggles of the day. Not once but many times Alagwa had bound up wounds and had cared for injured warriors. Jack’s condition had not at first seemed strange to her. She had supposed him only dazed from the blow he had received and needing only a brief rest to regain his strength. But now, abruptly, there flashed into her mind the memory of two warriors, brought home from a foray, who bore no visible wounds but who were yet wrecked in body and in mind. Like Jack they had been struck upon the head. Like him they had revived and had seemed to be gathering strength. Then abruptly they had collapsed and had lain feebly quiescent, dazed, with wandering lips and eyes, for weeks and months before they died. She did not know what the white men called this, but she knew the thing itself. Was Jack to be like this? It could not be! Passionately her heart cried out against it. And yet--and yet--even thus she was glad, glad, that Gitchemanitou had given him back to her. Only let him live, let him live, and---- But he could not live where he was. The ruined fort was a point of extreme danger. One war party bound for the north had already passed it on their way down the Auglaize, and at any moment another might follow. None would pass the ruins of the ancient fort without visiting it, even if no sign of the recent struggle were visible from the water or from the trail along the bank. If Jack was to be ill for a long time, she must get him back to Fort Wayne.