“Yes.”
“And one-half of 5280 is 2640?”
“Certainly.”
“I cover about two feet at every step through this broken country, do I not?”
“About that. But what are you driving at? You are the greatest boy to fire questions at one that I ever met.”
“Why, I want to go in the direction old Huayno gave for exactly a half mile, or as near that as possible, and then investigate.”
“Well, take care of yourself, and if anything happens fire a shot and I will hurry to your aid.”
“Good-by.”
“Good luck.”
And the boy disappeared in the timber. “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten,” Harvey counted, and then into the twenties and into the hundreds, thus numbering the steps as he took them in a north direction, guided by the compass needle. He soon lost sight of the camp and of the white rock and was well in the region of the tall trees. He had carried only his shot-gun, the little iron hammer, and the compass. The early morning was cool, the air bracing, and as the moon’s rays gave plenty of light, he made quick progress; but from the start he so regulated his steps that they would not be much over two feet each in length. Whatever addition there might be to that measure he thought would in the total correspond with old Huayno’s idea of a half mile, for the Indian’s estimate had invariably been less than the actual distance.