When the sun hung low and the early shadows of a winter afternoon began to gather, Bill halted and pointed to a spot far below them, where lay the lake in front of the cabin. The little log abode was not visible, but a thin, wavering column of blue smoke rose above the tops of the pines and showed them where it was. They knew that the guide was expecting them for supper.
“I can almost smell the biscuits,” laughed Ed.
“And the bacon, and beans, and coffee, and—” began George.
“Hold on there, son! You’ll get indigestion smelling so fast,” Bill laughed, as they hurried on down the mountain.
It was almost dark by the time they had crossed the lake. Their loud helloas brought Ben to meet them.
“Thought you fellows had deserted me,” he laughed, when they drew near. “Helloa, Bill, I’m powerful glad to see you; walk in. Hey, Moze, you old black rascal!”
A tall, straight figure in buckskin rose and greeted Bill. The boys gazed, fascinated, for it was none other than Indian Pete.
“Pete, these are the fellows I’ve been telling you about. Shake hands with Ed Williams and George Rand,” commanded the guide.
The lads beamed with pleasure when the long, bony hand of the Indian closed tightly over their own. For a moment or two he stood smiling down at them. Then he relaxed his friendly grasp and resumed his seat.
Bill learned that the tracks they had seen had been made by Pete. The two shots had sealed the doom of a noble five-prong buck, which now hung outside the cabin. While the Indian and the trapper conversed, Ben busied himself with the preparation of the evening meal.