Dad got back a while later and he walked over to where Mama stood listening to Mrs. Babbs. "Never mind about the doctor--operator says he went to a convention down in Chattanooga. My guess is he’s over at the Terrace Park Hotel, drunk. So I sent word for old Moses Walkingstick to come and do what he can."
I’d heard many a story about Moses. How he never gave up long as a sick person showed any signs of life. Once Moses rode over a hundred miles on a logging train flat-car. He held a death grip on the stub of a man’s leg, which was cut off right above the knee. Kept him alive until they reached the hospital.
"I declare, what does that old Indian know about medicine?" Mrs. Babbs asked, almost before the words got out of Dad’s mouth.
"It’s a crying shame they gave that Indian a Bible name like Moses," another woman said.
"Once I took sick with the new-monie fever and that Indian sent over some boneset tea for me to drink," Mrs. Babbs said, for all to hear. "When I took the stopper out of the vial, it smelled so bad everybody thar took sick to their stomachs."
"It’s plain you didn’t die," Dad said under his breath. "Least-wise, your tongue’s still working."
"Now, you take that doctor in town," Mrs. Babbs went right on without paying any mind to Dad, "he’s got the sweetest-smellin medicine. Hit makes a body feel the best."
"Sugar syrup and alcohol," Dad said. "Bet the stuff’s a hundred and eighty proof."
"Why, I believe some of the potions that Indian carries in his bag is pizen," Mrs. Babbs said. "He won’t tell a body what it is he doctors with. Bunch of yerbs and sech is my guess."
Dad slipped over between me and the fire. "She ought to know," he whispered. "She’s got about ever ailment known to man--puts a lot of stock in them little sugar pills. Ever month she comes home from town with a double handful."
At 10:30 we heard a faint knock on the door. The dogs didn’t bark out a warning. Not even Speck nor Lead growled.
Dad answered the door. A very small, very wrinkled Indian man with a scraggly gray beard followed him into the room. He had on a brown derby hat and carried a big skin bag over his shoulder. He moved quiet as a whiff of smoke through the woods; I couldn’t hear his footsteps even five feet away. His coal-black eyes seemed to see everything in the room, at one time. He had that smell of damp woods about him that men get from a very long camping trip. Being near him gave me the feel of someone from a far off place and a time long past. Not a word did he speak after he met Dad at the door. I felt an air about this little man, of knowing what to do and the grit to get it done.
Harrison’s foot looked bad. It had turned black all around the puncture. The red streaks running up his leg were now much brighter, and three reached blamed near to his knee. As he pulled the foot up out of the water, using both his hands, I saw the hurt and fear in his face.
Moses hunkered down by Harrison’s foot, then took a snow-white piece of something the size of a small pencil from his sack. I couldn’t tell if it was wood or bone. It might have been a rock of some kind--but I knew from the shine it had been handled a lot. He rubbed the end of it around and around the hole in the bottom of Harrison’s foot. Ever now and then, he’d switch and use his forefinger.
The look on Harrison’s face started to change.