And even while stumbling up and up among the stones and bushes in the darkness to the spot which he was to occupy with his father, the boy could think of nothing else but the brave fellow going slowly along the lower part of the gulch in the black darkness, to wait until the morning came before starting boldly off into the open to meet the Indians.
“It will mean arrows,” thought Chris. “He’ll be shot down somewhere out yonder, for it’s a mad trick, and can’t do him any good, nor yet us. Oh, I do wish I wasn’t such an idiot! So proud I was in my miserable conceit of having thought out a way to trap the Indians, and a nice mess I’ve made—sent the best friend I ever had to certain death.”
“What are you thinking about, Chris?” said the doctor at that moment.
“Thinking about, father?” faltered the boy.
“Yes; you have turned so quiet.”
“I was thinking about poor Griggs, father, and feeling afraid that he’ll never come back.”
“Then don’t think any more of such things. We none of us know. Wait and see. Now then, how long shall we have to wait before we see our brave fellow come along hunted by the enemy?”
“Don’t ask me, father.”
“Why not? How far are we off the morning?”
“Hours.”