“Don’t say anything about the big buffalo, Dig,” he whispered to his chum, as they hurried back through the grove. “I hope they don’t know anything about it. And what they don’t know won’t hurt them.”
“All right, boy! I won’t tell them any fairy tales,” said Dig.
Chet stirred up the fire, and mixed some prepared pancake flour, and put on the coffee pot. Some of the Indians joined Digby in catching fish. They had much more primitive tackle than the white boy; but the catfish bit so hungrily that it scarcely mattered whether the bait was let down to them on “store tackle” or on a thorn from a whitethorn bush.
“Say!” exclaimed Dig, “somebody besides us was hungry for breakfast. These cats are ravenous. Whew! look at that one!”
CHAPTER XIV—THE WARNING
As fast as the catfish were caught they were skinned and dressed. Chet had sliced all the bacon they had brought with them; he told Dig that the way they were feasting now pointed to a fast for the rest of their trip to Grub Stake.
“Don’t worry,” advised his chum. “Let’s give these Indians a good meal for once. They’re good fellows.”
Chet, as chief cook, was hampered by the size of his skillet; Poke had kicked a hole in the largest one the day before. But John Peep cooked the fish for the most part, while Chet fried flapjacks.
And no old cook with a trail outfit could toss a flapjack better than Chet Havens. One of the Indian lads brought clean pieces of bark—one for each person—and Chet slid the cakes on to these make-shift dishes. The fish were handed about on the same platters. There was plenty of seasoning besides the general good appetite.
“Don’t talk!” grumbled Dig. “By this time I don’t know whether I had any breakfast early or not. Don’t be stingy with the cakes, Chet.”