So now they were at home for a week in the wilderness. Jack followed Brown about as he was “making camp,” cutting tent-pegs and poles and putting up the old A-tent, which had seen service in the army and in many frontier camps since it was “condemned” and sold at quartermaster’s sale.
The man from Turner’s had taken another bite of lunch and returned with his animals. He bade Jack to watch for him as he passed the camp, day after to-morrow, with his mule-train for Atlanta.
The kitchen was unpacked down on the beach and the fireplace chosen,—a big, wedge-shaped rock,—in the lee of which John built a fire, not for warmth, but for the sake of a good bed of coals for cooking. Mrs. Gilmour was resting in the tent, under the pine-trees. Mr. Gilmour had gone up the river to catch some trout for supper.
After four o’clock the sun left the river bank, but all the colors were distinct and strong,—the white beach, the dark pine boughs against the sky, the purple colors in the rocks, and the spots of pale green and yellow lichen on them, the changing tints in the dark water swinging smoothly around the bend and then flashing out into a broad sheet of silvery sparkles over the bar. It was as if it went gravely around the shadowy bend, and then broke out laughing in the bright light.
As it grew darker, the kitchen fire began to glow red against the big gray rock. In front of it John was stooping to heap coals on the lid of the bake-kettle, where the bread was spread in a thin, round cake for cooking.
There were three big trout for supper and four or five little ones. The big ones were a noble weight to tell of, but the little ones tasted the best when they were taken out of the bake-kettle on hot tin plates and served with thin slices of bacon and camp bread.
The horses had been turned loose up the trail but now came wandering back, Billy leading, followed by Pete, who was hobbled but managed to keep up with him, and Mrs. O’Dowd meandering meekly in the rear. They were on their way home, having decided that was the best place to pass the night, but John turned them back. After supper he watered them at the river and took them up the trail to a rudely fenced inclosure on the bluffs, where there was better pasture.
Sleepy-time for Jack came very soon after supper, but as the tent was some distance from the camp-fire,—a lonesome bedroom for a little boy to lie in by himself,—he was rolled up in a blanket and allowed to sleep by the camp-fire. The last thing he could remember was the sound of the river and the wind in the great pine boughs overhead and voices around him talking about the stars that could be seen in the night sky between the fire-illumined tree branches. The great boughs moved strangely in the hot breath of the fire that lit them from below. The sky between looked black as ink and the stars blazed far and keen. John was washing up the dishes on his knees by the light of a candle fastened in a box set upon end to shield it from draughts. Jack watched the light shining up into his face and on his hands as he moved them about. It seemed as if he had slept but a moment, when they were shaking him and trying to stand him on his feet and he was stumbling along to the tent with his father’s arm around him.
How they crawled about in the low tent, by the light of a candle fastened by its own drippings to a stone, and took off a few clothes and put on more (for the September nights were cold); how cosy it was, lying down in his blankets inside the white walls of the tent with the curtain securely tied against the wind, with his father close beside him and his father’s gun on the outside within reach of an outstretched hand; how the light went out and the river sounded on and some twigs scraped against the tent in the wind,—this is about all Jack can remember of his first night under canvas.