“Sa-peesh tent,” said the Indian.
“Andy! Is Andy all right?” David asked apprehensively.
“Andy sleep mooch,” laughed the Indian. “Heem all right.”
David was vastly relieved by this assurance. He knew Sa-peesh, the old Mountaineer Indian, well, for Sa-peesh had camped at the post each summer for as many years as David could remember, and of all the Indians that came there was the only one who could speak English.
With Sa-peesh’s limited command of English, and the few Indian words that David understood, he presently learned that he and Andy had fallen headlong against the wigwam in the night, that the Indians had thus discovered and rescued them, and that they were quite welcome to remain until they were sufficiently recovered from exhaustion and snowblindness to return to the tilts. He also learned that they were a considerable distance to the eastward of Namaycush Lake, and had doubtless traveled up, instead of, as they had supposed, down, the river.
Satisfied with the assurance that Andy was quite safe, David lay back again upon the bed of boughs, as there was nothing else to do, and as he lay there he recounted to himself the happenings of the previous day.
The cloud of fire that had appeared so suddenly before him, then, was the Indians’ tent, with the firelight filtering through it and he whispered a little prayer of thanksgiving that God had guided him and Andy to it—and that they had kept their grit. Then he heard a movement by his side, and Andy’s voice speaking his name.
“Here I be, Andy!” said David eagerly. “How you feelin’?”
“Not so bad if ’tweren’t for th’ hurt in my eyes. Where are we, Davy?” asked Andy.
“In Sa-peesh’s tent, and away up th’ river instead o’ down,” answered David. “We ran into their tent in th’ dark. ’Twas good we kept our grit, Andy, or we’d ha’ perished before we got here.”