That evening they gathered about the campfire with all hands relating experiences. Stacy Brown recounted, for Cale's benefit, how he had hunted lion in the Grand Canyon; how he had fought a battle single-handed and won. The fat boy went over the story three times, each time enlarging upon it, Cale observing him with a good-natured smile, but making no comment. He was forming his estimate of Stacy, though Brown was unaware of the fact.
It was late when they finally turned in, and still no Charlie John had arrived. Cale sat up to wait for him, and the Indian came in with his pack at five minutes before midnight.
"Where put um?" asked the half-breed.
"Over there," answered Cale carelessly, with a wave of the hand.
The Indian's pack weighed some seventy-five pounds. It looked like a laundry bag. The instant he flung the pack down there came a yell, a series of wild howls that brought every member of the camp to his feet.
Groans and moans from under the Indian's pack attracted their attention to that point. At the first yell, Cale sprang forward and began pulling off the pack.
"You lummox!" he fumed, giving the Indian a menacing glance.
[CHAPTER IV]
BAITING THE HONEY BEES
The Indian had dumped his seventy-five pound pack on the sleeping Chunky.