“But we must get him home,” urged Billy.  “We ought to have a doctor.  He’ll be lame all his life if we don’t!” And poor big Billy’s voice shook.

“No.  No lame.  I doctor him,” said the Indian.  “I good doctor.  My name Five Feathers—­me.”

“Five Feathers!” exclaimed Billy.  “Oh, I’ve often heard father speak of you.  Father loves you.  He says you are the best Indian in the whole Hudson’s Bay country.”

Five Feathers smiled.  “Your father and me good friends,” he said simply.  Then added, “How you come here?”

“Why, you see,” said Billy, “we were returning from school at Winnipeg; it’s holiday now, you know.  Father sent the two ponies to ‘the front’ for us to ride home.  Some Indians brought them over for us.  It’s a hundred and sixty miles.  We started yesterday morning, and slept last night at Black Jack Pete’s place.  We must be a full hundred miles from home now.”  Billy stopped speaking.  His voice simply would not go on.

“More miles than hundred,” said the Indian.  “You got something eat?”

Billy went over to where his horse was staked to a cottonwood, hauled off his saddlebags, and, returning, emptied them on the brown grass.  They made a good showing.  Six boxes of matches, a half side of bacon, two pounds of hardtack, a package of tea, four tins of sardines, a big roll of cooked smoked antelope, sugar, three loaves of bread, one can of tongue, one of salmon, a small tin teapot, two tin cups, one big knife, and one tin pie plate, to be used in lieu of a frying-pan.  “I wish we had more,” said the boy, surveying the outfit ruefully.

“Plenty,” said the Indian; “we get prairie chicken and rabbit plenty.”  But his keen eyes scarcely glanced at the food.  He was busy slitting one of the sleeves from his buckskin shirt, cutting it into bandages.  His knife was already shaping splints from the scrub poplar.  Little Jerry, his eyes full of pain, watched him, knowing of the agony to come, when even those gentle Indian fingers could not save his poor ankle from torture while they set the broken bone.  Suddenly the misery of anticipation was arrested by a great and glad cry from the Indian, who had discovered and pounced upon a small scarlet blossom that was growing down near the slough.  He caught up the flower, root and all, carrying it triumphantly to where the injured boy lay.  Within ten minutes he had made a little fire, placed the scarlet flower, stem and root, in the teapot, half filled it up with water, and set it boiling.  Then he turned to Billy.

“Sleeping medicine,” he said, pointing to the teapot.  “He not have pain.  You stay until he awake, then you ride on to Fort o’ Farewell.  You take some food.  You leave some for us.  You send wagon, take him home.  I stay with him.  Maybe four, five days before you get there and send wagon back.  You trust me?  I give him sleeping medicine.  I watch him.  You trust me—­Five Feathers?”