I took him to a quieter nook between two tents. The arrow had gone clean through his thigh. I cut off the head. Then I pulled out the shaft. The youngster didn’t make a sound, but the agony wilted him. He fainted dead away, and I was glad of it. While he was senseless, I washed that wound clean, more thoroughly than I would have had the heart to do if his eyes had been open. Then I cut up my shirt and began to bandage his leg in tiptop fashion. Before the bandaging was finished, the boy woke up with a groan. The instant he realized that he had made a sound of complaint, he clapped his hand over his mouth and stared at me as though he expected a beating. I brought him plenty of cold water next, and he drank like one with a fever. As a matter of fact, he had lost a good deal of blood, for it was a nasty wound. Then I picked him up in my arms and carried him off to find his parents, if I could.
I had hardly come out into the crowd before I saw that the two battles were not only over, but that the Sioux had gained a whacking big victory. The braves were coming in singly and in groups, telling what they had done and showing the scalps they had taken. From what I learned afterward, it seems that the Pawnees ventured to stand their ground a bit too long, and, although they intended to act merely as a mask for the really vital attack on the village, they allowed themselves to get entangled in the sweep of the Sioux charge. The result was a pretty severe butchery before the Pawnees disentangled themselves again and scooted across the prairie, but even in the hunt many were cut down, because their horses were not comparable in freshness with those of the villagers. Nearly half of the braves of the village, it seemed to me, had at least one scalp. Those who had more were sure to be centers of interest, but no one was more densely surrounded than a tall young man with golden hair that flowed down over his shoulders. It was Morris, of course. They were making an immense fuss over him, but, when he saw me, he broke through the circle and came wading through the Indians.
“Half the party is taking the praise, Lew,” he said, laughing at me. “Step in for your share.”
“You talk like a fool,” I told him. “I have a poor boy here more than half dead. I want to find his mother. Will you ask these chattering blockheads to find the right teepee for me?”
He asked the question and got his reply quickly enough.
“Standing Bear has a brother, Three Buck Elk, almost as important a chief as the Bear himself. This youngster is Sitting Wolf, the only son in either family. You’ve done yourself a good turn in taking care of that youngster, Lew.”
He had barely gotten this out when a squaw came twisting through the crowd and snatched at little Sitting Wolf. I only had one arm free, and I didn’t feel like wasting politeness. I put my palm in her face and pushed her away. But right behind her came an Indian every whit as tall as Standing Bear, except that he was not nearly so ponderous of shoulder. He was dabbled with blood from neck to waist, and he had four scalps at his belt. I knew by that as well as by his dignity that he was quite a man in his nation. In another moment I knew that he must be Three Buck Elk and the boy’s father. I could tell by the way he stood over the youngster and looked down to him, and by the way Sitting Wolf smiled back in his face. He laid a hand on my shoulder, this blood-stained brave, and the word that he spoke came up from his heart. Whatever the word was, the sound of it is the same in all languages spoken by men. It was: “My brother.”
He took Sitting Wolf in his arms tenderly. The squaw trotted along at his side, wringing her hands. I brought up the rear, because I wanted to see that the youngster was well taken care of. They waded through the wrangling crowd to one of the biggest teepees - the same one that had refused us food that afternoon. There they put Sitting Wolf on a buffalo robe, and presently they brought in a cross-eyed old woman who began to mumble over the youngster and knead his wound right through the bandage. The pain of it must have been frightful, and Sitting Wolf’s face shone with perspiration. I couldn’t stand that, so I took the old hag by the shoulder and sent her right about. Then I sat down by the boy. The leg was swelling and feverish. I cut the bandage away and washed the wound again with warm water. The relief was so immense that Sitting Wolf actually moaned. Then I dressed the leg again. I smoothed out the buffalo robe on which he was lying and put a pad under his hip and his knee, so that the weight of the leg would not lie on the wound. Then I made Three Buck Elk’s squaw stew up some meat and gave the broth to the boy. A little while later Sitting Wolf fell asleep.
All this time the chief and his squaw had been fiddling around. She was tremendously worried because the old witch had been sent away. Besides, she wanted to take a hand with her son herself. Three Buck Elk took her by the shoulder and sat her down with a thump, for he seemed to guess that the white man’s magic of common sense was a great deal better than any folderol made up of words and foolishness. When the boy finally went to sleep, the chief pointed to him and then to me, and the squaw came up and peered at her child.
He made a wonderful picture as he lay there on his back with the firelight flickering and leaping over his smooth young body. The mother went over him from head to foot with a touch as light as a feather. Then she covered him carefully and tucked him in. When she finished, she sat down by his head, and, looking up at me, she said something with a voice as soft as cooing doves.
Of all the pictures with which my mind is crowded and in which Sitting Wolf plays a leading part, this picture is the most lasting one. I can still see his head turn into his mother’s arm with a smile. As for Three Buck Elk, he was in an agony because he could not tell me what he felt toward me. He took up a fine new rifle and pressed it into my hands. He dragged together a heap of buffalo robes and made signs that they were mine. Finally he signified everything in the teepee was mine, if I would take it, and, pointing to a picture of a horse painted on the side of the tent, he held up his fingers many times to indicate that I should have ten - twenty horses.
I shook my head. It is amazing how much a person can say without words. I was able to tell Three Buck Elk and his squaw, by signs, how Sitting Wolf had come into the fighting line with his toy bow, how he had been wounded, how he had dragged himself to the side, and continued his fight after he was struck down. The face of the chief, while I talked, was that of one who is drinking the most delicious wine. His lips moved, translating my gestures into his own language, and the big muscles of his arms worked as he labored at the war bow in imitation of his boy in the combat. When I ended, Three Buck Elk was too moved to speak or move. He stood there with his head down, and his blood-stained chest heaving.
I knew that he was afraid lest I should see the tears of pride and of sorrow and of utter happiness in his eyes, and so I sneaked out of the teepee as quietly and as quickly as I could. Outside, a couple of young bucks spied me. They took hold of me and swept me along with or without my will to a place in the center of the village where a big fire was shaking its head high above the tops of the tallest trees. There was the whole band except the wounded and their families. Their howling brought echoes from the coyotes and the buffalo wolves out on the prairie. They were dancing and prancing around the flames, generally making themselves happy and foolish.
I found Chuck Morris drawn back into the shadow, looking on. I went to him as soon as possible.