She led him by a little detour and on their hands and knees they crept through the brushwood. They reached the open rock and peered down through a screen of bushes into the canyon below.
“There he is,” cried Moira.
Across the little stream that flowed at the bottom of the canyon, and not more than a hundred yards away, stood an Indian, tall, straight and rigidly attent, obviously listening and gazing steadily at the point where they had first stood. For many minutes he stood thus rigid while they watched him. Then his attitude relaxed. He sat down upon the rocky ledge that sloped up from the stream toward a great overhanging crag behind him, laid his rifle beside him and, calmly filling his pipe, began to smoke. Intently they followed his every movement.
“I do believe it is our Indian,” whispered the doctor.
“Oh, if we could only get him!” replied the girl.
The doctor glanced swiftly at her. Her face was pale but firm set with resolve. Quickly he revolved in his mind the possibilities.
“If I only had a gun,” he said to himself, “I'd risk it.”
“What is he going to do?”
The Indian was breaking off some dead twigs from the standing pines about him.
“He's going to light a fire,” replied the doctor, “perhaps camp for the night.”