“Joe Smoky Face, as he called himself, was here lookin’ after the ponies, but when I came he went away. Don’t like them Apaches. Bad medicine, every one of ’em.”
“Joe is said to be trustworthy,” said Grace.
“Good Indians wear white men’s dress. This Redskin dresses like what he is—an Apache—an’ he lives with his tribe up the mountain,” growled Ike.
“Why worry about Indians?” interjected Lieutenant Wingate. “Food and more food is the burning question of the hour.”
Grace directed the driver to take one of the horses and fetch some potatoes and some few other necessaries from the Lodge.
“It is quite probable that we shall be here for a few days, so nothing in the way of food need be left behind,” she told him.
Following Ike’s departure, Grace and Hippy began putting the finishing touches to the camp. Blankets were neatly rolled and placed on the folding cots; a fancy paper spread was laid over the rough table that Ike had constructed for them, and paper napkins laid at each plate. A bunch of wild asters, set between two stones, to keep them from toppling over, completed the table decorations.
“There!” announced Grace, surveying the result of her labors. “We may not be strong on food, but we have decorations. Perhaps the guests may overlook the mere matter of food,” she added laughingly.
By the time the camp was in order, Ike came trotting up with his pack animal. He had a bushel of potatoes, and some fresh vegetables from which Grace prepared a salad, and while she was doing this, Ike thrust the potatoes into hot ashes to bake.
“The young ladies will be here to help to finish getting the supper ready, Mr. Fairweather. I shall return at seven with our company. One of the guests is General Gordon, a brave soldier whom I met on the battlefield in the Argonne. The other is Colonel Cartwright, another valiant soldier of the late war. I thought you might be interested in knowing something about these men, for they are real men.”