Home > Authors Index > H. Irving Hancock > Young Engineers in Colorado > This page
The Young Engineers in Colorado, a novel by H. Irving Hancock |
||
Chapter 7. What A Squaw Knew |
||
| < Previous |
Table of content |
Next > |
|
________________________________________________
_ CHAPTER VII. WHAT A SQUAW KNEW All the way to camp Rutter kept the pony at a hard gallop. "Thurston! Mr. Thurston!" he shouted. "Be quick, please!" Even as the young man called, Mr. Thurston ran out of his tent. "You know something about rattlesnake bites, I believe?" Rutter went on hurriedly, as Tom Reade slipped to the ground. "The boy has been bitten by one and we'll have to work quickly." "Don't bring any liquor, though," objected Reade, leaning up against a tree. "If liquor is your cure for snakebites I prefer to take my chances with the bite." "Get the shoe off and roll up the trousers," directed the chief engineer, without loss of words. "Fortunately, I believe we have someone here who knows more about treating the bites than I do. Squaw!" An Indian woman who had been sitting on the grass before the chief's tent, a medley pack of Indian baskets arranged before her, glanced up. "Snake! You know what to do," went on Mr. Thurston hurriedly. "You know what to do----eh? Pay you well." At the last three magic words the aged squaw rose and hobbled quickly forward. "Take boy him tent," directed the Indian woman. "I can walk," remarked Tom. "No; they take you. Heap better," commanded the woman. Instantly Mr. Thurston and Rutter took hold of Tom, raising him into their arms. Through the flap of his tent they bore him, depositing him on his cot. The Indian woman followed them inside. "Now you go out," she ordered, with a sweep of her hand. "Send him cookman. Hot water---heap boil." Thus ordered, Jake Wren came on the run with a kettle of boiling water. The Indian squaw received it with a grunt, ordering that bowls and cups be also brought. When Wren came the second time he lingered curiously. "You go out; no see what do," said the squaw. So Jake departed, the squaw tying the flap of the tent after he had gone. Then, from the bosom of her dress she drew out a few small packages of herbs. The contents of these she distributed in different bowels and cups. "I'd like to see what the old witch is doing, and how she's doing it," declared Rutter in a whisper. "She'll stop short if she catches you looking in on her," replied the chief, with a smile. "For some reason these Indians are very jealous of their secrets in treating snakebites. They're wizards, though, these same red-skinned savages." "You believe, then, that she can pull Reade through?" asked Rutter eagerly. "If she knows her business, and if there's any such thing as saving the boy she'll do it," declared Mr. Thurston, as they reached the door of the chief's tent. "Will you come inside, Rutter! You look badly broken up." "I am, and I shall be, just as long as Reade is in any danger," Rutter admitted. "Reade is a mighty fine boy and I'm fond of him. Besides, more than a little of our success in getting the road through on time depends on the boy." "Is Reade really so valuable, then?" "He goes over the course, Mr. Thurston, as rapidly as any man in our corps, and his work is very accurately done. Moreover, he never kicks. If you told him to work half the night, on top of a day's work, he'd do it." "Then Reade, if he recovers, must be watched and rewarded for anything he does for us," murmured Mr. Thurston. "Don't say, 'if he recovers,' chief," begged Jack. "I hate to think of his not pulling through from this snakebite." "What became of the reptile that did the trick?" asked Mr. Thurston. "That crawler will never bite anything else," muttered Rutter. "I got the thing with my riding quirt." Not very long after Harry Hazelton reached camp, well in advance of the chainmen, for Harry, good school athlete that he was, had jog-trotted every step of the way in. "Where's Tom?" Hazelton demanded. "Here," called a voice from Reade's tent. Hazelton turned in that direction, but Mr. Thurston looked out from the large tent, calling: "Don't go there now, Hazelton. You wouldn't be admitted. Come here." Despite his long run, Harry's face displayed pallor as he came breathlessly into Mr. Thurston's field abode. In a few words, however, the lad was acquainted with the situation as far as it had developed. In the meantime what was the squaw doing with Tom? It must be admitted that Reade hadn't any too clear an idea. The gaunt old red woman poured hot water, small quantities at a time, into the bowls and cups in which she had distributed the herbs. Then she stirred vigorously, in the meantime muttering monotonously in her own language. "She isn't relying on the herbs alone," muttered Tom curiously to himself. "She's working up some kind of incantation. I wonder what effect she expects an Indian song to have on snake poison?" Presently the squaw turned, bringing one of the cupfuls to the wounded boy. "Sit up," she ordered. "Drink!" Tom nearly dropped it, it was so hot. "Drink!" repeated the squaw. "But it's so hot it'll burn my gullet out," remonstrated Reade. "You know more I do?" demanded the squaw stolidly. "Drink!" Tom took a sip, and shuddered from the intense heat of the stuff. "Humph! White man him heap papoose!" muttered the squaw, scornfully. "You want live, drink!" Tom took a longer swallow of the hot stuff. Whew, but it was bitter! "The bronze lady is trying to turn me inside out!" gasped the boy to himself. "Drink---all down!" commanded the squaw with scarcely less scorn than before in her voice. This time Tom took a hard grip on himself and swallowed all the liquid. For a moment, he thought the nauseating stuff would kill him. "Now, eat grass," ordered the squaw. "Meaning eat these herbs," demanded Tom, glancing up. "Yes. Heap quick." "To make a fellow eat these herbs after drinking the brew from them is what I call rubbing it in," grimaced Reade. "Now, this," continued the squaw, calmly handing a second cup to Tom. "It's all right for _you_ to be calm," thought Tom, as he took the cup from her. "All you have to do is to stand by and watch me. You don't have to drink any of these fearful messes." However, Tom brought all his will power into play, swallowing a second brew, compared with which the first had been delicious. "Eat this grass, too"? inquired Tom, gazing at the squaw. "Yes." Tom obeyed. "I shall be very, very careful not to meet any more snakes," he shuddered, after getting the second dose down. Now the squaw busied herself with spreading soaked herbs on a piece of cloth that she had torn from one of Tom's white shirts' to which she had helped herself from his dunnage box. "What's a dollar shirt, anyway, when an interesting young man's life is at stake" mused Reade. "Ow---ow---ooch!" "You baby---papoose?" inquired the squaw calmly. She had slapped on Tom's leg, over the bite, a poultice that, to his excited mind, was four hundred degrees hotter than boiling water. "Oh, no," grimaced Tom. "That's fine and soothing. But it's growing cool. Haven't you something hotter?" Just five seconds later Reade regretted his rashness, for, snatching off the first poultice, the squaw slapped on a second that seemed, in some way, ten times more powerful---and twenty times hotter. "It's queer what an awful amount of heat a squaw can get out of a kettle of hot water, thought the suffering boy. I'll wager some of the heat is due to the herbs themselves. O-o-o-o-ow! Ouch!" For now the third poultice, most powerful of all, was in place, and Mrs. Squaw was binding it on as though she intended it never to come off. 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." However, Hazelton was not satisfied with that. He slipped out, crossed camp and stealthily peeped inside of the tent. Then Hazelton slipped back to Mr. Thurston to report. "If Tom doesn't swallow some of those big snores of his, and choke to death, I think he'll get well," said Harry, with a laugh that testified to the great relief that had come to his feelings. With that all hands had to be content for the time being. _ |
||