“Nice night, Crowfoot,” said Cameron cheerfully. “Good weather for the grass, eh?”
“Good,” said Crowfoot gruffly.
Cameron pulled out his tobacco pouch and passed it to the Chief. With an air of indescribable condescension Crowfoot took the pouch, knocked the ashes from his pipe, filled it from the pouch and handed it back to the owner.
“Boy smoke?” inquired Cameron, holding out the pouch toward the youth.
“Huh!” grunted Crowfoot with a slight relaxing of his face. “Not yet—too small.”
The lad stood like a statue, and, except for a slight stiffening of his tall lithe figure, remained absolutely motionless, after the Indian manner. For some time they smoked in silence.
“Getting cold,” said Cameron at length, as he kicked the embers of the fire together.
Crowfoot spoke to his son and the lad piled wood on the fire till it blazed high, then, at a sign from his father, he disappeared into the tent.
“Ha! That is better,” said Cameron, stretching out his hands toward the fire and disposing himself so that the old Chief's face should be set clearly in its light.
“The Police ride hard these days?” said Crowfoot in his own language, after a long silence.