“Not until yesterday,” he explained. “Of course I knew there was a lady in your outfit. Yesterday an Indian told me who you were.”
“An Indian. I haven’t talked to one. How did he know my name?”
“He didn’t. He knew you. That was still better. There may be two Joyce Mills in the world. There is only one you.”
“Knew me!” A puzzled look overspread the girl’s face. “I don’t understand.”
“You wouldn’t unless you knew Indians. In their own way they are clever beyond belief; some of them at least. They see everything, can imitate every action, your smile, your gestures, your walk, everything. They can describe the fillings in your teeth, the shape of your fingers and every bit of toggery you wear. This man had not been speaking three minutes before I knew it must be you.”
“Indians,” she murmured as Johnny came closer to her sled. “Are they as clever as that?”
“They sure are!”
“But, Johnny!” she exclaimed. “What are you doing here? And how does it happen that we arrived on the same day?”
“I am doing,” said Johnny slowly, “just what your outfit is doing, searching for mineral, gold, silver, platinum, radium.
“As for that other question—” His words came with great hesitation. “That—that’s a deep secret. I wonder if you know the answer yourself. No. I am sure you don’t, nor your father either. You are square shooters, you are. Your father is the straightest detective that ever guarded the streets of New York. He wouldn’t be in on a thing like that, not if he knew it.”