"What did he say?" asked Hamil.
"He says that he is lost!"
Hamil stared around in dismay; a dense white wall shut out everything; the Indian's lantern at ten paces was invisible; he could scarcely see Shiela unless she rode close enough to touch his elbow.
"Catch um camp," observed Little Tiger calmly. "Loose bridle! Bimeby catch um camp. One horse lead. No be scared."
So Hamil dismounted and handed his bridle to the Indian; then Shiela cast her own bridle loose across the pommel, and touching her horse with both heels, rode forward, hands in her jacket pockets. And Hamil walked beside her, one arm on the cantle.
Into blank obscurity the horse moved, bearing to the left—a direction which seemed entirely wrong.
"Catch um camp," came the Indian's amused voice through the mist from somewhere close behind.
"It doesn't seem to me that this is the right direction," ventured Shiela doubtfully. "Isn't it absurd? Where are you, Mr. Hamil? Come closer and keep in touch with my stirrup. I found you in a fog and I really don't want to lose you in one."
She dropped one arm so that her hand rested lightly on his shoulder.
"This is not the first mist we've been through together," he said, laughing.