by massage reduced the inflammation, and it plastered the hair down as a
sort of dressing over the wound to keep out the air, dirt, and microbes.
There could be no better treatment.

But the Indian was on his trail. Before long the smell warned Wahb that
a foe was coming, so he quietly climbed farther up the mountain to
another resting-place. But again he sensed the Indian's approach, and
made off. Several times this happened, and at length there was a second
shot and another galling wound. Wahb was furious now. There was nothing
that really frightened him but that horrible odor of man, iron, and
guns, that he remembered from the day when he lost his Mother; but now
all fear of these left him. He heaved painfully up the mountain again,
and along under a six-foot ledge, then up and back to the top of the
bank, where he lay flat. On came the Indian, armed with knife and gun;
deftly, swiftly keeping on the trail; floating joyfully over each bloody
print that meant such anguish to the hunted Bear. Straight up the slide
of broken rock he came, where Wahb, ferocious with pain, was waiting
on the ledge. On sneaked the dogged hunter; his eye still scanned the
bloody slots or swept the woods ahead, but never was raised to glance
above the ledge. And Wahb, as he saw this shape of Death relentless on
his track, and smelled the hated smell, poised his bulk at heavy cost
upon his quivering, mangled arm, there held until the proper instant
came, then to his sound arm's matchless native force he added all the
weight of desperate hate as down he struck one fearful, crushing blow.
The Indian sank without a cry, and then dropped out of sight. Wahb rose,
and sought again a quiet nook where he might nurse his wounds. Thus he
learned that one must fight for peace; for he never saw that Indian
again, and he had time to rest and recover.

[Illustration]