“Doaned dalk to me!” he cried. “My heardt iss prooken!”
Clean, trimmed and clothed, Chescheela James Felton was a different looking boy. Months only could take those animal lines out of his face, and fresh air and wholesome food fill out the hollows of the cheeks, but, all in all, he was not a bad-looking youngster.
Jim Felton bought some supplies for his camp, and prepared to start for home that afternoon, as they could yet make fifteen miles before dark.
The new friends of the morning saw them off with hearty good-bys. The boy quite unexpectedly thanked them for their treatment and the money. The poor little soul had heard few words of gratitude, and had less chance to employ them.
His speech was curious, but the generous big men saw behind the words, and felt really touched by the old-child’s attempt to express himself.
The two Jims soon pushed on, through the rolling foot-hills near the town, into the broken country. The boy kept watching, watching, but said little, until at last they came to the stupendous cliffs of Paha-Sahpedon, overhanging the trail with dark majesty. Jim happened to glance at the boy, and saw him looking up, mouth and eyes wide open.
“Say, Mister!” gasped Ches. “Who built them!”
“Built?” repeated Jim, puzzled. Then he understood. “The hand of God, my boy,” he replied.
The urchin shivered. “I feel’s if dey was comin’ ertop o’ me,” he gasped. “Let’s hook it outer here.”
Jim spanked the burro, and they flew out of the Paha-Sahpedon at a canter.