“Ugh! Joe him ’bout ready to go. Him tired stay here.”
“And you will take me with you—where?”
“Prairie big, mountains deep,” was the answer.
“And they will not be able to find us?”
“Never find Old Joe.”
“I’ll do it!” the boy suddenly decided. “Joe, I’ll go with you anywhere to get away from him. And we’ll go this very night!”
Old Joe Crowfoot returned to his seat by the cabin wall and resumed his smoking, apparently perfectly contented.
Dick wandered away by himself, passing through the woods, which led down to the shore of Lake Sunshine.
The boy was happy again, believing that he was going to remain his own master and live the wild, free life that he loved, so he whistled as he passed through the woods. His whistling was like the warbling of a mocking-bird, full of liquid sweetness and trills, and soon he was answered from the branches overhead, where the flit of wings could be seen. He was calling the birds in their own language, and they were answering. The strange notes that came from his pursed lips were marvelous to hear, and the birds came flying after him, flitting from tree to tree.
By the shore of the lake he found a comfortable spot beneath a wide-spreading tree, and there he flung himself on the ground, continuing his birdlike calls. The birds gathered on the branches above him, looking down at him with fearless curiosity.