Silver Run had become a town of some importance. There were other industries besides mining. It was a well governed town, and although on the verge of the wilderness it had easy communication with cities in a more advanced state of civilisation.
When the boys were about two miles from the Silent Sue mine, they came upon one of the abandoned camps. There was little left to mark its occupancy by the prospectors of the old regime save several caved-in shafts and some rusted, corrugated-iron shacks.
From the rusty stove-pipe chimney of one of these, smoke was curling, and Digby said:
“I bet that’s where the lame Indian hangs out. You know, he’s old Scarface’s grandson.”
“I know. John Peep. That’s what the boys used to call him when he came to school.”
“You don’t want to call him that to his face,” chuckled Dig. “It makes him madder’n a hen on a hot skillet. He’s got some fancy Indian name that he prefers to be called by. Oh, he’s a reg’lar blanket Indian—and Scarface does odd jobs of cleaning out cellars and whitewashing!”
“Poor fellow!” said Chet, scarcely giving his mind to the matter of the Indian youth. “It must be tough to limp around on a game leg. One’s shorter than the other. You don’t often hear of a lame Indian.”
“No. Father says that in the old days if an Indian baby was born deformed they got rid of it right away. And when Indians used to fight they fought so hard that they usually killed each other. That’s why there were seldom cripples among them.
“But this chap—Ah! there he is.”
A figure appeared at the open door of the shack. It was that of a tall, slim boy, very dark, with red under the skin on his cheekbones, and straight, long black hair. His “scalp lock” was braided; the rest of the hair was well greased and hung to his shoulders.