Raider. Or worse. He wasn't sure. He drew the hatchet and prepared for a fight, but the figure vanished into the trees before he could even take a battle stance. He wished he'd brought his rifle. It wouldn't have taken long, but he had no way of knowing where the two were headed or why. He paused for a heartbeat, deciding to follow the attacker or aid the other man. When they made eye contact, though, it was decided. He slid the hatchet back into the leather loop on his belt and knelt down next to Oliver, placing one hand over his. Wounds like this one--Carson knew better than to hope. Knew better than to even reach for his medical pouch. Instead he reached for one behind it, and took out a small white bottle. The label had been rubbed clear ages ago, but the medicine within remained potent.<br/><br/>"Malia is fine," he said quietly. "She's hiding nearby." He glanced up and around and decided it was worth the risk. "Malia!" he called, brief and sharp. If the feral man came back then Carson would be prepared. He pulled open the bottle and dumped a single pill into his hand, which he put to Oliver's mouth. "Swallow it whole. It will ease the pain." It was all he could do, realistically. In ages past such an injury could have been treated--he'd read books about emergency surgeries and procedures, but even then. He kept what grimness he could from his face as he put pressure over the wound, keeping Oliver there for as long as he was able.