“Where’d you learn to make an Indian cook-fire?” demanded Ike.
“My husband taught me. He is a forester, you know,” replied Grace.
“Know how to make a lean-to?”
“Oh, yes, sir.”
“You’ll do. No tenderfoot ’bout you. Reckon I’ll fetch water for the folks and horses now.”
The party ate sitting on the ground, Ike’s interest during the meal being divided between Grace Harlowe and Lieutenant Wingate. They were the first real heroes that he had ever known, and he proposed to make the most of his opportunity.
“Well, Mr. Fairweather, shall we go on?” asked Grace after they had finished the meal.
“Reckon so. Better camping ground further on.”
Equipment was quickly packed away and Ike hooked up for the start, but before leaving, Hippy Wingate and Elfreda issued a solemn warning that there was to be no more speeding.
The night, now upon them, was moonless, but the stars shed a faint light on the trail causing it to stand out dimly for a short distance ahead of them, save here and there, where overhanging rocks threw it into a deep shadow. It was an ideal night for traveling, cool but invigorating, with the breath of mountain and canyon heavy on the still evening air.