“Phew! how are we going to get over that?” cried Cute; surveying the impediment in dismay.
Oneotah pointed to a tall spruce tree that grew beside the crag.
“Climb this,” he said, “and from its branches you can reach the top of the rock.”
“Show! I should never have thought of that.”
“Beyond it lies your camp. The descent upon the other side is easy. You can climb?”
“You had better believe it—like a monkey! Good-by, Antelope. Shake hands before we slope.”
Oneotah extended his hand cordially, but he winced a little under the vigorous grasp that Percy Cute bestowed upon him, for the fat hands of the boy had quite a degree of strength in them. Cute laughed as Oneotah quickly released his fingers from the roguish squeeze, uttering a suppressed “O—h!”
“Did I hurt you?” asked Cute, with well-assumed innocence.
Oneotah shook his fingers, as if to restore the circulation of the blood in them, by way of answer.
“Don’t mind him,” cried Percy Vere. “He’s always at his tricks. You leave us here?”