He was thinking deeply, so deeply that at last he thought aloud:
"I am a white man. I've been an Indian long enough. Yes, I think I'll try it. That would be better than killing all the Apaches between this and the California line."
He did not explain what it was he meant to try, but the stern expression on his face grew milder and milder, until it almost seemed as if he were smiling. Even Steve Harrison had never seen him do that.
The venison roasts were wound up, twisted tight again and again, and at last they were taken off.
"They'll do. I'll give 'em an hour to cool, and then we must be off."
The hour went by, and then Steve felt himself rudely shaken by the shoulder.
"You can't have it," grumbled Steve. "That gold's ours. I killed it myself, and we're roasting it now."
"Dreaming, are you? Wake up, Steve. It's time we were moving. We've a long night ride before us."
"How late is it?"
"No watch; can't say exactly. But I reckon we can reach the valley by sunrise, and not overwork our horses. They're both in good condition."