s head up. With that Marc seemed to give way to
ungovernable rage and plunged right through camp; he knocked over the
dogs' shelter and thundered down the ridge.

Now the Navajo, with the bridle in his hand was thoroughly at home. He
was getting his revenge on Marc, and he would have kept his seat on a
wild mustang, but Marc swerved suddenly under a low branch of a pine,
sweeping the Indian off.

When Navvy did not rise we began to fear he had been seriously hurt,
perhaps killed, and we ran to where he lay.

Face downward, hands outstretched, with no movement of body or muscle,
he certainly appeared dead.

"Badly hurt," said Emett, "probably back broken. I have seen it before
from just such accidents."

"Oh no!" cried Jones, and I felt so deeply I could not speak. Jim, who
always wanted Navvy to be a dead Indian, looked profoundly sorry.

"He's a dead Indian, all right," replied Emett.

We rose from our stooping postures and stood around, uncertain and
deeply grieved, until a mournful groan from Navvy afforded us much
relief.

"That's your dead Indian," exclaimed Jones.

Emett stooped again and felt the Indian's back and got in reward
another mournful groan.

"It's his back," said Emett, and true to his ruling passion, forever
to minister to the needs of horses, men, and things, he began to rub
the Indian and call for the liniment.

[Illustration: TREED LION]

[Illustration: TREED LION]

Jim went to fetch it, while I, still believing the Navvy to be
dangerously hurt, knelt by him and pulled up his shirt, exposing the
hollow of his brown back.

"Here we are," said Jim, returning on the run with the bottle.

"Pour some on," replied Emett.

Jim removed the cork and soused the liniment all over the Indian's
back.

"Don't waste it," remonstrated Emett, starting to rub Navvy's back.

Then occurred a most extraordinary thing. A convulsion seemed to
quiver through the Indian's body; he rose at a single leap, and
uttering a wild, piercing yell broke into a run. I never saw an Indian
or anybody else run so fleetly. Yell after yell pealed back to us.

Absolutely dumfounded we all gazed at each other.

"That's your dead Indian!" ejaculated Jim.

"What the hell!" exclaimed Emett, who seldom used such language.

"Look here!" cried Jones, grabbing the bottle. "See! Don't you see
it?"

Jim fell face downward and began to shake.

"What?" shouted Emett and I together.

"Turpentine, you idiots! Turpentine