The lad knew he must take a roundabout way to the village so that he might avoid Indian runners or scouts, and he hoped this stream would prove to be the one he had once camped upon.
As they were riding toward a gentle swell or knoll covered with trees and shrubbery, Whispering Winds felt something warm on her hand, and, looking, was horrified to find it covered with blood.
Joe's wound had opened.

She told him they must dismount here, and remain until he was stronger.

The invalid himself thought this conclusion was wise.

They would be practically safe now, since they must be out of the Indian path, and many miles from the encampment.
Accordingly he got off the horse, and sat down on a log, while Whispering Winds searched for a suitable place in which to erect a temporary shelter.
Joe's wandering gaze was arrested by a tree with a huge knotty formation near the ground.

It was like many trees, but this peculiarity was not what struck Joe.