“Wigwam,” grinned the half breed. “Oh, yes—yes, so,” and he pointed south.
“You take us there?” inquired Ben eagerly.
“Morning. Me guide. See? Charge one dollar.”
“You shall have ten,” cried the delighted Bob, “and a whole barrel of salt thrown in.”
The Indian could speak only a few words of English and could not sustain any conversation with them. When the pheasant was broiled they gave him half of it. They passed him the salt bottle and he was supremely happy. He made his share of the fowl look as if it was coated over with frosting, ate it clear to the bones, selected a place near the fire, used his bag for a pillow, and was placidly snoring inside of two minutes.
“Well, Ben, I guess we’re headed for home at last,” observed Bob.
“It looks so. I can hardly wait till morning to start.”
“You won’t wake Powhattan until he’s all ready,” declared Bob, as they turned in.
When Ben woke up in the morning, two large fish, scaled and cleaned, lay on pieces of bark before the smouldering fire. The Indian was missing, but his rifle lay beside the bag that had served as his pillow for the night.
“Where’s Powhattan?” inquired Bob, rousing up. “Oh, there he is, taking a morning swim,” added Ben, glancing past the thicket to where a little stream flowed. “Breakfast provided, eh? Where did the fish come from?”