“There, I think we are going to pull up at last,” ventured Roger, as he saw the leading Indians halt, and begin to look around as though to make sure that no enemy lurked in the neighboring woods.
It was a well-chosen spot for a concealed camp. A shallow depression, very like a large bowl, offered them a chance to build a small fire without any risk of the blaze being seen; and, so far as smoke was concerned, those dusky sons of the forest could be counted on to select such wood that there would not be sent up the slightest column of vapor to betray them.
Roger, still watching, soon uttered a low cry of satisfaction.
“See, Dick, they do mean to have a little cooking-fire!” he exclaimed; “and that means we may get some supper after all. So far they have shown us no particular ill will, and treated us half-way decently.”
“That comes of being taken for the sons of the Great White Father at Washington,” remarked Dick, with a chuckle that told that his spirits had not been crushed even though the future looked so dark and forbidding. “It is a high honor that has come to us, Roger, to be reckoned President Jefferson’s own boys!”
Roger, however, was more interested in what was going on about the little fire than anything else. He observed just how the expert braves formed a small pyramid, and then used the flint and steel to start a tiny blaze.
“Yes, one of them is unwrapping that bundle he carries, Dick,” the boy went on to say, “and, just as I expected, it contains some freshly killed venison. Oh! it’s going to be all right, and we are due for some supper, I reckon.”
But Dick was thinking of other things than eating just then. He surveyed with a critical eye the lowering sky, and wondered if a storm was about to break upon them before morning came.