"I have been here before," said Joe to Whispering Winds. "I remember
that vine-covered stone. We crawled over it to get at Girty and
Silvertip. There's the little knoll; here's the very spot where I
was hit by a flying tomahawk. Yes, and there's the spring. Let me
see, what did Wetzel call this spot?"
"Beautiful Spring," answered the Indian girl.
"That's it, and it's well named. What a lovely place!"
Nature had been lavish in the beautifying of this inclosed dell. It
was about fifty yards wide, and nestled among little, wooded knolls
and walls of gray, lichen-covered stone. Though the sun shone
brightly into the opening, and the rain had free access to the mossy
ground, no stormy winds ever entered this well protected glade.
Joe reveled in the beauty of the scene, even while he was too weak
to stand erect. He suffered no pain from his wound, although he had
gradually grown dizzy, and felt as if the ground was rising before
him. He was glad to lie upon the mossy ground in the little cavern
under the cliff.
Upon examination his wound was found to have opened, and was
bleeding. His hunting coat was saturated with blood. Whispering
Winds washed the cut, and dressed it with cooling leaves. Then she
rebandaged it tightly with Joe's linsey handkerchiefs, and while he
rested comfortable she gathered bundles of ferns, carrying them to
the little cavern.
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