Joe’s loquacity was flattering. It was the first time on their pilgrimage that Kenyon had heard Joe utter more than one word at a time.
The woods had seemed so vast, so interminable that Kenyon had often wondered whether it would be possible to find a spot so lacking in identity as the one they were seeking. But Joe’s nod and smile completely reassured him. In his unfamiliarity with the wilderness he had forgotten that here was Joe Keegón’s city, its trails, portages and streams as clearly mapped in his mind as the streets of John Kenyon’s New York. The Indian would find the place where the deer was killed. Kenyon breathed a sigh of relief. The wheel of Destiny was spinning now and Kenyon had nothing to do but sit and watch. He had done his share.
That night there was much to do, but Keegón seemed in no hurry. When Gallatin, who seemed tireless was for making a permanent camp at once, Joe shook his head and went on cleaning fish.
“To-morrow,” he said.
When the morrow came, Gallatin was off in the underbrush hunting firewood before the others were awake. From his place by the fire Joe watched him lazily.
“Aren’t you going to get to work, Joe?”
“Soon,” the Indian grunted, but made no movement to get up.
“I want to fish.”
“To-morrow.”
“Why not to-day?”