"Hold on, Jo," exclaimed Jim. "Don't waste our canteen water on that coffee, we may need it."
"You are not going down to the creek," I cried, in alarm.
I knew only too well what lengths Jim's bravado would carry him. For I had not forgotten the time that he went down to the creek in our first canyon in Colorado, on a moonlight night when we knew that there were Indians lurking near. So I was prepared for the worst.
"No," he replied, to my intense relief, "I am going to look around here."
"You won't find any on top of a hill like this," I said, "the water all runs off."
"All right, my boy, but I'm going to look. You can stay in the kitchen and cook the venison."
Then Jim stooped out of the front door and disappeared. In a short time I heard his low, peculiar whistle and I ran out. I found Jim between two large rocks.
"Here you are," he said.
I hastened to satisfy my curiosity. I saw quite a little water in a pocket between the rocks.
"Quite a lake, isn't it?" asked Jim.