"Just now there are no white boys but you. Maybe some will come. And not many Indians, either. Many are gone to Mesa Grande and around there, picking berries and cherries, and then there will be the grape picking."
"Will you play with us sometimes and show us places?" continued Walter.
Francisco laughed. "I do not play much," he said, "and there are not places to show. You see how it is," with a swing of his hand over the valley. "But I will do what I can."
"We are camping down there," said Mr. Page, pointing to the three white tents in the midst of the cottonwood grove.
"You have the best place. In a week you could not have got there, for others are coming soon and would have taken it."
"Well, come down, Francisco, and we'll see what we can do," said Mr. Page. "You look like a good boy, and Walter will want a companion. Good-by for the present."
"Adios," said Francisco, retracing his steps to his ruined dwelling and, the children noticed, not once looking back, though they followed him with their eyes until he disappeared within the doorless opening to his home. When they got back to camp Charlie was waiting with a dinner of fried rabbit, potatoes, fresh tomatoes, and melons purchased from the Indians that morning. As they sat in the brush dining-room, within sound of the pleasant waterfall, around the well-spread table, all were unanimous in declaring that the viands could not have been surpassed.