"Don't need much. Young eyes call for more sleep than old ones. Lie right down and never mind me. I'll call you when your time comes."
Steve was used to paying the old man a pretty good kind of obedience, and he was glad enough to obey him now. He was quickly asleep under a spreading tree, while Murray sat down before the fire, as if to "mind the roast." There was something more important than venison for him to think of, however. He had taken off his hat, and his white head was bare. With the strong light of the camp-fire shining upon his weather-beaten face he would have made a good subject for a painter. 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, or why it would be so much better than killing Apaches; but the stern expression on his face grew milder and milder, until it almost seemed as if he were smiling, and 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. I'll pack the rest of the meat raw, but we haven't left much of it."
To much to throw away for men who were not sure of their regular meals, and were very sure of getting hungry.
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."