“Yes, you are my friend, too—my good friend. What can we do for you?”
“Salt.”
“What is that?” inquired Bob strangely.
The Indian had a bag strung across his back. He drew out of it a fat pheasant, evidently recently killed, and just dressed and washed at some near stream, for it was dripping with fresh water.
“No fire—no salt,” he said. “You salt?”
“Salt?” repeated Bob buoyantly. “Loads of it. Why, about all we have got is salt—and pepper. Look here.”
The lunch put up at the aero meet had included a dozen hard boiled eggs. A salt and a pepper bottle had accompanied them. Very little of the condiment had been used.
The Indian’s eyes sparkled, as he at the discovery of a treasure, as he viewed the salt longingly. Then he passed the pheasant over to Ben with an unctious smack of the lips and the words:
“You cook—plenty salt.”
“Yes, and give you the bottle for yourself,” cried the exuberant Bob, slapping the Indian on the shoulder in a friendly familiar way. “I say, old chief, where are we? Can you direct us to any town? People, houses, white man’s wigwam, understand?”