She had hollowed out a place
for my hips to lie more easily, and pulled grasses for my bed. In all
ways thoughtfulness and unselfishness had been hers. As I realized this,
I put my hands over my face and groaned aloud. Then I felt her hand on
my head.
"How did you eat?" I asked her. "You have no fire." "Once I had a fire,"
she said. "I made it with flint and steel as I saw you do. See," she
added, and pointed to a ring of ashes, where there were bits of twigs
and other fuel.
"Now you must eat," she said. "You are like a shadow. See, I have made
you broth."
"Broth?" said I. "How?"
"In your hat," she said. "My father told me how the Indians boil water
with hot stones. I tried it in my own hat 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.
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