Then, abandoning the pick and shovel where he had dropped them, the old man gathered up the roots and started to retrace his steps to the cabin. Still wondering at Crowfoot’s strange actions, Hodge followed.
The sunshine lay warm on the valley, which seemed deserted save for themselves.
“Man git hand hurt, him no hurry back much,” observed Crowfoot.
“Not yet,” said Hodge. “But he will come and bring his dogs with him soon enough.”
When the cabin was reached Crowfoot stood some moments looking at a little pile of wood lying in a corner near the open fireplace.
“You build a fire, Black Eyes,” he said. “Joe him cold—him cold.”
“Well, your blood must be getting thin,” declared Hodge. “You can bake out in the sun to-day if you want to.”
“No like sun bake,” was the retort. “Too slow; not right kind. Want fire bake.”
“Oh, all right,” said Bart, ready to humor the old man. “I will have a fire directly.”
To his surprise, while he was starting the fire, old Joe brought in more wood that had been gathered in a little pile outside and threw it down in the corner. Several times he came with an armful of wood, but finally, seemed satisfied.