There was nothing especially noticeable in the site which the scout had selected for his camp fire. His principal object had been secrecy and he had obtained it beyond all peradventure. The place was more like a cavern than anything else, except that it was open at the top, but it was walled in on the four sides, so there was barely room for the three to enter. As the scout explained, he was perfectly familiar with that section of the country, and he lost no time in hunting out the spot. He had his horse with him at the time the Apaches drove Mickey and Fred in among the rocks, and he staid until pretty certain they could keep the Apaches at bay until dark, when he made his way to a level spot inclosed by rocks. There he kindled a fire, cooked some antelope and left his mustang to graze and browse near by, while he returned to the assistance of his friends.
“Where did ye shoot that uncleope, or antelope?” asked Mickey.
“I didn’t shoot him at all; he’s the one you fetched down. Yer left enough for me, so I didn’t run the risk of firing my gun when the varmints were so close by, so I sliced out a hunk or two from the carcass, and fetched it along.”
“Ye haven’t got any of it about ye?”
“Not enough for yer folks—no more than three or four pounds.”
“Be the powers but ye’re right. That’s ’nough to stay our stomach, as me sick aunt remarked after swallowing her twenty-third dumpling.”
At the moment the party walked in among the rocks the smoldering embers of the camp-fire were plainly seen. They needed but a little stirring to break forth into flame again, so as to light up the interior, which was about a dozen feet square, with a height of a dozen feet, more or less. When the Irishman signified that something in the way of food would be acceptable, the scout produced it from among the leaves near at hand, and it was devoured with the heartiest kind of appetite. They had drank all the water they needed, and the three assumed easy, lounging attitudes, Mickey lighting his pipe and enjoying himself immensely.
“This is what I call comfortable,” he remarked, “as me friend Patsey McFadden observed when the row began at the fair and the whacks came from every quarter. I enjoy it; it’s refining, it’s soothing; it makes a man glad that he’s alive.”
“What do you think of it?” asked the scout, turning to Fred, who was reclining upon the heavy Apache blanket, with the appearance of one who was upon the verge of sleep.
“I feel very grateful to you,” said he, rousing up, “and I am more contented than I have been in a long time; but I’m afraid all the time that Lone Wolf or some of his braves might find where we are.”