There was his hunting-knife lying upon a flat stone near to his
hand, with a fresh red blotch upon the blade, and there was his
little stone pipe clenched between his teeth and glowing red
within the bowl. Also there was the ankle, purple and swollen
from the ligature above it--for his legging was off and torn into
strips which formed a bandage, and a splinter of rock was twisted
ingeniously in the wrappings for added tightness. From a
crisscross of gashes a sluggish, red stream trickled down to the
ankle-bone, and from there drip-dropped into a tiny, red pool in
the barren, yellow soil.
"Catchum rattlesnake bite?" queried Good Indian inanely, as is
the habit of the onlooker when the scene shouts forth eloquently
its explanation, and questions are almost insultingly
superfluous.
"Huh!" grunted Peppajee, disdaining further speech upon the
subject, and regarded sourly the red drip.
"Want me to suck it?" ventured Good Indian unenthusiastically,
eying the wound.
"Huh!" Peppajee removed the pipe, his eyes still upon his ankle.
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