“Yes,” and Rolf pointed to the swollen ankle.
The Indian picked up the lad in his arms and carried him back to the little camp. Then, from his light pack, he took bread and tea and made a meal for both. And, as they ate, each heard the other's tale.
“I was troubled when you did not come back last night, for you had no food or blanket. I did not sleep. At dawn I went to the hill, where I pray, and looked away southeast where you went in the canoe. I saw nothing. Then I went to a higher hill, where I could see the northeast, and even while I watched, I saw the two smokes, so I knew my son was alive.”
“You mean to tell me I am northeast of camp?”
“About four miles. I did not come very quickly, because I had to go for the canoe and travel here.
“How do you mean by canoe?” said Rolf, in surprise.
“You are only half a mile from Jesup River,” was the reply. “I soon bring you home.”
It was incredible at first, but easy of proof. With the hatchet they made a couple of serviceable crutches and set out together.
In twenty minutes they were afloat in the canoe; in an hour they were safely home again.
And Rolf pondered it not a little. At the very moment of blackest despair, the way had opened, and it had been so simple, so natural, so effectual. Surely, as long as he lived, he would remember it. “There is always a way, and the stout heart will find it.”