“You must be starving. Want to eat?”
“Good!”
“Hurry, then, Allan, with the water. By the time this lad has been fed you will be back.”
It was not long before Allan was back with the water.
“Now, then,” he said to the Indian, “where's your camp?”
The Indian with his knife drew a line upon the ground. “River,” he said. Another line parallel, “Trail.” Then, tracing a branching line from the latter, turning sharply to the right, “Big Hill,” he indicated. “Down—down.” Then, running the line a little farther, “Here camp.”
“I know the spot,” cried Allan. “Well, I'm off. Are you quite sure, Mandy, you don't mind?”
“Run off with you and get back soon. Go—good-by! Oh! Stop, you foolish boy! Aren't you ashamed of yourself before—?”
Cameron laughed in happy derision.
“Ashamed? No, nor before his whole tribe.” He swung himself on his pony and was off down the trail at a gallop.