When the sun had sunk beneath the horizon, leaving as a reminder of its presence flashes of gold and purple on the few clouds which hovered lazily above, preparations for supper were made.
The cooking was done on a bed of live coals in front of the wigwam. Even Larry thoroughly enjoyed the fried pork, roast potatoes and baked fish. And, besides all this, Thunderbolt passed around corn cakes and plenty of tea.
As the grayness of dusk deepened the lights of the various fires threw a rosy glow over the teepees and redskins. The forms of the hills slowly became lost, until only the topmost branches of the trees, outlining themselves weirdly against the sky, could be distinguished in the black, somber masses. Finally they, too, disappeared in an impenetrable darkness which settled over the great basin.
The guttural voices of unseen Indians came over the air; sometimes a horse whinnied, or a bird flying overhead, or in the timbered reaches, uttered a note which seemed to carry with remarkable clearness.
“Gee! I never knew it could be so black out-of-doors,” said Larry.
“I’ve seen it blacker than this,” returned Tom Clifton.
“Oh, of course we know that,” drawled Larry. “But I’ll bet a white horse would look like a spot of ink to-night.”
Soon after supper was over Billy Ashe rose to his feet.
“I must be off, boys,” he said.
“What! Going to police barracks now?” asked Larry, in astonishment. “How can you find your way?”