To-day Valencia rode down to the bayou--"
While he told indignantly the tale of the latest pillage, he bared the
wounded arm. Jack got stiffly upon his swollen feet to look. It was
not a serious wound, as wounds go; a deep gash in the bicep, where a
bullet meant for Dade's heart had plowed under his upraised arm four
inches wide of its mark. It must have been painful, though he had
not once mentioned it; and a shamed flush stung Jack's cheeks when he
remembered his own complaints because of his feet.
"You never told me!" he accused again, this time in the language of
his host.
"The Senor Hunter has the brave heart of a Spaniard, though his blood
is light," said Manuel rebukingly. "The Senor Hunter would not cry
over a bigger hurt than this!"
Jack sat down again upon the bull-hide seat and dropped his face
between his palms. Old Manuel spoke truer than he knew. Dade Hunter
was made of the stuff that will suffer much for a friend and say
nothing about it, and to-day was not the first time when Jack had all
unwittingly given that friendship the test supreme.
Manuel carefully inspected the wound and murmured his sympathy. He
pulled a bouquet of dry herbs from where it hung in a corner, under
the low ceiling, and set a handful brewing in water, where the coals
were golden-yellow with heat. He tore a strip of linen off Valencia's
best shirt which he was saving for fiestas, and prepared a bandage,
interrupting himself now and then to dart over and inspect the
tortillas baking on the hot rock.
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