“When are we going over the top of one of the snow-mountains, father?” he said.
“I have no intention of going over the top of either of the mountains,” replied the colonel. “We have nothing to gain but hard labour up there. We want to get through the first ridge, and on to the rich tablelands, or among the beautiful valleys.”
Perry said “Oh!” in a tone of voice which suggested “Do we? I did not know.” Then aloud: “How high up are we now?”
“About eight thousand feet, I should say; perhaps a little more, for it is rather cold. There, let’s get to sleep; I want to start early and be well on our way soon after sunrise.”
The colonel had his desire, for, long before the lower part of the ridge was quite light, the mules were all loaded, and the party made their start, with Diego the Indian leading, the new arrival second, and the other man right in the rear as before.
Perry had one glance at the new-comer, and made out that he was a more stunted fellow than the others. In other respects he seemed to be similar in aspect, but wore a good deal of radiating paint upon his cheeks, from which it was drawn along in lines right up to his brows, and downward toward the jaws. He wore the same loose, many-folded gown, reaching just to his knees, and carried a bow, arrows, and a long blowpipe, but he was wanting in his friends’ plumpness and breadth of shoulder.
“Looking at the new mule-driver, Perry?” said the colonel. “Yes? Seems to be quite a stripling. But so long as he does his work well enough, it does not matter.”
He did do his work and well, as it proved, trudging along by the mules, helping to unload and load again, managing those under his charge admirably, and proving to be most industrious in fetching water. But he was timid and distant to a degree, shrinking away when either of the English party approached him, and on one occasion showing so evident an intention to hurry away into the mountains, that the colonel checked his son when next he saw him making for the Indian lad.
“Let him be,” said the colonel; “he’s wild as a hawk, and he doesn’t look particularly clean.”
“No,” said Perry, laughing, “he is a grub. Those fellows don’t wash, I suppose, for fear of spoiling their paint.”