But Jerry’s hand was already clasping the Indian’s, and Billy was interrupting.

“Trust you?  Trust Five Feathers, the best Indian in the Hudson’s Bay country?  I should think I will trust you!”

The Indian nodded quietly; and, taking the teapot from the fire, poured the liquid into one of the cups, cooling it by dripping from one cup to the other over and over again.  Presently it began to thicken, almost like a jelly, and turned a dull red color, then brighter, clearer, redder.  Suddenly the Indian snatched up the prostrate boy to a sitting posture.  One hand was around the boy’s shoulder, the other held the tin cup, brimming with reddening, glue-like stuff.

“Quick!” he said, looking at Billy.  “You trust me?”

“Yes,” said the boy, very quietly.  “Give it to him.”

“Yes,” said Jerry; “give it to me.”

The Indian held the cup to the little chap’s lips.  One, two, three minutes passed.  The boy had swallowed every drop.  Then the Indian laid him flat on the grass.  For a moment his suffering eyes looked into those of his brother, then he glanced at the sky, the trees, the far horizon, the half-obliterated buffalo trail.  Then his lids drooped, his hands twitched, he lay utterly unconscious.

With a rapidity hardly believable in an Indian, Five Feathers skinned off the boy’s sock, ran his lithe fingers about the ankle, clicked the bone into place, splinted and bandaged it like an expert surgeon; but, with all his haste, it was completed none too soon.  Jerry’s eyes slowly opened, to see Billy smiling down at him, and Five Feathers standing calmly by his side.

“Bully, Jerry!  Your ankle is all set and bandaged.  How do you feel?” asked his brother, a little shakily.

“Just tired,” said the boy.  “Tired, but no pain.  Oh, I wish I could have stayed!”

“Stayed where?” demanded Billy.

“With the scarlet flowers!” whispered Jerry.  “I’ve been dreaming, I think,” he continued.  “I thought I was walking among fields and fields of scarlet flowers.  They were so pretty.”

Five Feathers sprang to his feet.  “Good!  Good!” he exclaimed.  “I scared he would not see them.  If he see red flowers, he all right.  Sometimes, when they don’t see it, they not get well soon.”  Then, under his breath, “The Scarlet Eye!”

“I saw them all right!” almost laughed the boy.  “Miles of them.  I could see and smell them.  They smelled like smoke—­like prairie fires.”

“Get well right away!” chuckled the Indian. “Very good to smell them.”  Then to Billy:  “You eat.  You get ready.  You ride now to Fort o’ Farewell.”

So they built up the dying fire, made tea, cooked a little bacon, and all three ate heartily.

“I’ll leave you the teapot, of course,” said Billy, taking a dozen hardtack and one tin of sardines.  “Slough water’s good enough for me.”

But Five Feathers gripped him by the arm—­an iron grip—­not at all with the gentle fingers that had so recently dressed the other boy’s wounded ankle.  “You not go that way!” he glared, his fine eyes dark and scowling.  “Yes, we keep teapot, but you take bread, and antelope, and more fat fish,” pointing to the sardines.  “Fat fish very good for long ride.  You take, or I not let you go!”