Jimmie was toiling and urging with the rest, in the depths of a star-canopied black canyon, when he heard a laugh, close at his ear, and a voice that said, in Apache:
“Why do you work so hard, Boy-who-sleeps? Are you afraid the Tonto will get away?”
It was Micky Free, bareback on a mule. He could scarcely be seen, but Jimmie recognized his speech.
“Where did you come from?” demanded Jimmie crossly.
“Oh, I am here,” laughed Micky. “I know all this country very well. I told you I was going to Camp Grant.”
“Then you’d better get to work,” retorted Jimmie. “I haven’t any time to talk.”
“No, I didn’t come to work; I came to fight the Tonto,” laughed Micky. “But the rest of you had better work, or I’ll be the only one to get to Camp Grant.”
Amidst the hurly-burly of stumbling mules and perspiring packers Jimmie lost him, and did not sight him again until long after sunrise the next morning, when at last the command was out of the canyons and the wearied pack-train followed the cavalry into camp.
Micky was already there, ahead, squatting beside Alchisé. He arose and came back to where Jimmie was helping Slim Shorty, the cook.