Jack put the question in rather an anxious tone. But for some reason Baldy only grunted in reply.
“I’m going back to camp to git you a gun,” he said; “you stay right here till I get back.”
“Very well, Mr. Baldy,” rejoined the boy, in as conciliatory a tone as possible.
“Don’t mister me. I ain’t got no handle to my name and don’t never expect to have,” grunted Baldy, as he swung his pony and rode off.
As Jack listened to the retreating hoof beats he felt strangely lonely. It was very dark down in the cañon, and the steely blue stars seemed very far away. Only the rushing of the water of the river disturbed the boy’s thoughts while he awaited Baldy’s return.
“He’s not very lively company,” he admitted to himself, “but it’s better than being all alone. Wish Ralph or Walt had been ordered to share my watch.”
But the next moment he was scolding himself.
“For shame, Jack Merrill,” he said, “here’s the first bit of duty you’ve been put to, and here you are complaining already. It’s got to stop right here and now, and—hello, what was that?”
The boy broke off short, as through the darkness of the cañon he caught an odd sound from the river.
“What can that sound be?” he said to himself. “It seems familiar, too. Where have I heard something like it before?”