It proved good fortune, however, for Bud that he was given help of any kind soon. His neglect of his wound had already brought on a fever, and blood poison was threatening. The medicine man did his best with incantations to drive the disease away. It is doubtful, however, that his rattling, juggling tricks helped much. The faithful nursing of the white patient’s foot by Towano’s old squaw was no doubt the help that put him, after a few days, on the way to recovery. But these were bitter days for Bud at best. To suffer such indignity at the hands of his friends, to be shot and kicked out into the night, and finally to be forced to lie like a beggar among Redskins, taking their nauseating doses, their coarse food, the dirt and discomfort of their wickiups, in storm and shine,--all this rankled in his soul as he lay convalescing, and filled his heart with hate and a stubborn resolve to get revenge. In this state of wrath, Bud’s slow brain was rather quickened to see and seize upon the suggestion of co-operative enmity that the Indians occasionally threw out. They were already full of anger towards the warden and the ranchers. The persistent encroachment of the cattlemen on their hunting grounds, and their threats to enforce irritating game laws had put the Indians in an ugly mood. It would have taken but little to precipitate open warfare with all the horrors of massacre and plunder. Bud was in a state of mind, however, not to reck at consequences. His brain was too unimaginative to picture ahead. He lived only an animal-like existence from day to day. It was an opportunity he saw to pay up his enemies with brutal interest. The idea gradually possessed him; but for the present he said nothing, lying low and nursing his hate by recalling the pictures of Alta Morgan’s refusal, of Dick Davis’s triumph, and the derisive contempt of the whole crowd. One afternoon as the white patient was lying under the trees near the tepee the Indians had built for him, several young bucks came over to talk with him. They were evidently in a fever of subdued excitement. About an hour before, they had dashed into camp and Nixon heard them talking rather loudly with wild gesticulations, to their old chief; but he could only make out something about game men. They did not offer any explanation now, being still a little afraid to trust the white man who had fallen in with them. “What’s up?” asked Nixon; “game warden been after you?” “That’s it,” responded Flying Arrow, a young chieftain; “heap chase Injuns this morning, but no ketch ’em.” “Oh, he’s no good; he needs killin’.” “You think so,” the Indian responded; “you no like him.” “Naw, he’s a squaw killer. Why didn’t you shoot him?” “Injun no want trouble; white man better let Injun alone”; the chief’s tone was threatening. “White man has no business stopping you from killing all the deer you want. I’d put a bullet through him if he tried to stop me. What did he do to you?”