“I don’t know,” said George, soberly.
That was too bad. Why didn’t they call in the black medicine-man?
Except for George and the sick Charles Floyd, the boat was deserted; for on the shore another dance and feast were in progress. Chief Little Thief and his Indians were staying, and the ’Nited States appeared to be bent upon giving them a good time.
All that night the sick Charles Floyd moaned at intervals, in the bunk; and George Shannon and Patrick Gass and others kept watch over him; while Peter, on the other side of the partition, listened or slept. Toward morning, when Peter next woke up, he had been aroused by tramp of feet over his head, and splash of water against the boat, and orders shouted, and a movement of the boat itself.
They were starting, and he was starting with them! Hoorah! Now he was not hungry or thirsty or tired; he was excited.
Yes, the boat was moving. He could hear the plashing of oars, and the creak as the sail was raised. And in a few minutes more the boat leaned and swerved and tugged, and the river rippled under its bow.
Peter waited as long as he possibly could stand it to wait. Patrick Gass had said for him to lie hidden until Chief Little Thief had left, and the boat had started. Very well.
All was silent in the room beyond. He peered, and could see nobody. Over the partition he once more squirmed, into the top-most bunk; and feeling with his toes let himself down. The door was shut, but it had a window in it that he might look out of; and if anybody opened, he would dive under the table or under a bunk, until he saw who it was.
The sick man in the bottom bunk opposite suddenly exclaimed. He was awake and watching.
“Who are you?” he challenged weakly.