The question naturally caused the couple to look around in quest of the unknown friend.
They saw him at the first glance.
"There he is! Look at him!" whispered Tim Brophy.
Less than a hundred yards away stood an Indian warrior, calmly watching them. He had mounted a bowlder, so that his figure was brought out in clear relief. He was in Indian costume, most of it being hidden by a heavy blanket gathered around the shoulders, but the leggings and moccasons showed beneath, and the head was ornamented with stained eagle-feathers. The noticeable fact about him, however, was that his black hair was short, and the feathers were fixed in a sort of band, which clasped the forehead. The rather pleasing face was fantastically daubed with paint, and he held a fine rifle in his right hand, the other being concealed under his blanket.
His action, or rather want of action, was striking. The bowlder which supported him was no more stationary than he. He gazed fixedly at the youths, but made no signs and uttered no word.
"Begorra, but he's a shtrange gintleman," muttered Tim. "I wonder if he's posin' for his picter."
"His firing of the gun proves that he is a friend," said Warren; "so we have nothing to fear from him."
"If that's the case why doesn't he come forward and interdooce himself? whisht now!"
What did the Irishman do but pucker up his mouth, whistle, and beckon to the Indian to approach. The latter, however, did not move a muscle.
"Helloa!" called Warren; "we thank you for your kindness; won't you come forward and join us?"