“Plan work fine,” he informed him. “Me fool Henderson good an’ plenty, I guess. Make ’em run all through woods try and catch me. Shoot plenty of rifles an’ make big noise. Bye-’n’-bye I give ’em slip an’ come back here.”
“You’re a trump!” exulted his hearer. “I knew you could do it.”
“Henderson him plenty sick by now,” chuckled Toma. “Go home like mad grizzly ’cause he no find mounted police.”
The Indian guide stood for a moment, warming his hands over the fire.
“Where Sandy go?” he suddenly asked.
Dick flushed slightly under the direct, searching scrutiny. The truth was, he felt a little guilty about Sandy. After all, perhaps, he should not have permitted his friend to go.
“I’ll tell you about it,” said Dick, which he proceeded to do, wondering what Toma would say.
When Dick had concluded, the guide stood for several minutes silently contemplating the leaping flames at his feet. His face was expressionless—neither sober nor gay.
“No like,” he declared finally, shaking his head. “No like Sandy go away alone. Him more young me an’ you. Him little fellow. No stand much. Mebbe get lost.”
“No,” said Dick, endeavoring to reassure the young Indian and likewise himself, “Sandy will be perfectly all right. We don’t need to worry.”