Two minutes after that Tom Reade commenced to retch violently.
With a memory of the messes that he had swallowed he didn't wonder.
The squaw now stepped outside, calling for coffee. This was
brought. Tom was obliged to drink several cupfuls, after which
he began to feel decidedly more comfortable.

"Now, take nap," advised the squaw, and quitted the tent.

"The bronze lady seems to know what she's doing," thought Tom.
"I guess I'll take the whole of her course of treatment." Thereupon
he turned his face to the wall. Within sixty seconds he slept.

"How's Reade?" demanded Harry, rising eagerly as the squaw stepped
inside the chief's tent.

"He sleep," muttered the squaw.

"He---he---isn't dead!" choked Harry, turning deathly pale.

"You think I make death medicine?" demanded the squaw scornfully.
"You think me heap fool?"

"The young man will be all right, squaw?" asked Mr. Thurston.

"Humph! Maybe," grunted the red woman. "Yes, I think so. You
know bimeby."

"That's the Indian contempt for death," explained the chief engineer,
turning to Harry. "I imagine that Reade is doing all right, or
she wouldn't have left him."