Once in Steve's arms the child allowed an arm to encircle the stranger's neck. It was an action of complete abandonment to the new friendship, and it thrilled the man. It carried him back over a thousand miles of territory and weary toil to a memory of other infant arms and other infant caresses.
"'Es. I likes you," the boy observed as they moved on. "Who's you?"
Half confidences were evidently not in his calculation. He had readily given his, and now he looked for the natural return.
Steve laughed delightedly.
"Who's I? Why, my name's Steve. Steve Allenwood. 'Uncle' Steve. And this is Julyman. He's an Indian, and very good man. And we like little boys. Don't we, Julyman?"
The grin on the scout's face was still distorting his unaccustomed features as he moved along beside his boss.
"Oh, yes. Julyman, him likes 'em—plenty, much."
"Why ain't you asleep?" demanded the boy abruptly addressing the scout and in quite a changed tone. His smile, too, had gone.
Steve noted the change. He understood it. White and colour. This child had been bred amongst Indians, and his parents were white. It was always so. Even in so small a child the distinction was definite. He replied for Julyman, while the Indian only continued to grin.
"Julyman only sleeps at night," he said.