t first, but it is gone. A hot
stone burned it through." Then I noticed that she was bareheaded. I lay
still for a time, pondering feebly, as best I could, on the courage and
resource of this girl, who now no doubt had saved my life, unworthy as
it seemed to me. At last I looked up to her.

"After all, I may get well," I said. "Go now to the thicket at the head
of the ravine, and see if there are any little cotton-wood trees.
Auberry told me that the inner bark is bitter. It may act like quinine,
and break the fever."

So presently she came back with my knife and her hands full of soft
green bark which she had found. "It is bitter," said she, "but if I boil
it it will spoil your broth." I drank of the crude preparation as best I
might, and ate feebly as I might at some of the more tender meat thus
softened. And then we boiled the bitter bark, and I drank that water,
the only medicine we might have. Alas! it was our last use of my hat as
a kettle, for now it, too, gave way.

"Now," she said to me, "I must leave you for a time. I am going over to
the Indian camp to see what I can find."

She put my head in the saddle for a pillow, and gave me the remnant of
her hat for a shade. I saw her go away, clad like an Indian woman, her
long braids down her back, her head bare, her face brown, her moccasined
feet slipping softly over the grasses, the metals of her leggins
tinkling. My eyes followed her as long as she remained visible, and it
seemed to me hours before she returned. I missed her.

She came back laughing and joyful. "See!" she exclaimed. "Many things! I
have found a knife, and I have found a broken kettle; and here is an awl
made from a bone; and here is something which I think their women use in
scraping hides." She showed me all these things, last the saw-edged
bone, or scraping hoe of the squaws, used for dressing hides, as she had
thought.

"Now I am a squaw," she said, smiling oddly. She stood thoughtfully
looking at these things for a time. "Yes," she said, "we are savages
now."

I looked at her, but could see no despair on her face. "I do not believe
you are afraid," I said to her. "You are a splendid creature. You are
brave."

She looked down at me at length as I lay. "Have courage, John Cowles,"
she said. "Get well now soon, so that we may go and hunt. Our meat is
nearly gone."

"But you do not despair," said I, wondering. She shook her head.

"Not yet. Are we not as well off as those?" she point