Long they talked over the plans, till it was far past midnight, when Cameron took his leave and returned to his hotel. He put up his own horse, looking after his feeding and bedding.
“You have some work to do, Ginger, for your Queen and country to-morrow, and you must be fit,” he said as he finished rubbing the horse down.
And Ginger had work to do, but not that planned for him by his master, as it turned out. At the door of the Royal Hotel, Cameron found waiting him in the shadow a tall slim Indian youth.
“Hello!” said Cameron. “Who are you and what do you want?”
As the youth stepped into the light there came to Cameron a dim suggestion of something familiar about the lad, not so much in his face as in his figure and bearing.
“Who are you?” said Cameron again somewhat impatiently.
The young man pulled up his trouser leg and showed a scarred ankle.
“Ah! Now I get you. You are the young Piegan?”
“Not” said the youth, throwing back his head with a haughty movement. “No Piegan.”
“Ah, no, of course. Onawata's son, eh?”