“Then, for goodness’ sake, my lad, try to shake off this girlish cowardice, or you’ll make me regret bringing you.”
“I’ll try, father,” said the boy, his face flushing hotly.
“That’s right. I’m sure Captain Norton’s son would have cut a better figure.”
Perry’s face grew hotter, and he felt a bitter feeling of annoyance at being compared so unfavourably with the lad who had been his companion.
The feeling was only momentary, though, and he went on and overtook the Indian, with the knife in his hand.
He was going to give it without a word, but the idea that, perhaps, after all, the half-savage being might understand a few words of English, flashed into his mind, and he said:
“This is not worth much, but I hope you’ll keep it in memory of my gratitude for your bravery to-day.”
To his disgust, the Indian paid not the slightest attention, but trudged on barefooted beside the mule, as if perfectly unconscious of any one beside him, and Perry’s nerves being all on the jar, he felt irritated at giving, un-noticed, a pretty speech.
“Here, catch hold,” he said. “This is for you.”
He thrust the knife into the Indian’s grimy hand as he spoke, and then walked on to where Diego received him with a smile of welcome, and began talking directly in his mongrel tongue, perfectly content if the boy seemed to understand a word here and there, when he pointed to cavernous-looking holes in the cliff face opposite to him, to some brighter and greener spot in the gorge, or to some distant fall which glittered in the sunshine which came obliquely down into the narrow vale.