The Last of the Chiefs | Page 4

and
himself--and he really did enough for three. No other was so swift and
skillful at taking the gear off horse or mule, nor was there a stronger or
readier arm at the wheel when it was necessary to complete the circle of
wagons that they nightly made. When this was done, he went out on the
prairie in search of buffalo chips for the fire, which he was fortunate
enough to find without any trouble.
Before returning with his burden, Dick stood a few moments looking
back at the camp. The dusk had fully come, but the fires were not yet
lighted, and he saw only the shadowy forms of the wagons and flitting
figures about them. But much talked reached his ears, most of it coarse
and rough, with a liberal sprinkling of oaths. Dick sighed. His regret
was keener than ever that Albert and he were in such company. Then
he looked the other way out upon the fathomless plains, where the
night had gathered, and the wind was moaning among the swells. The

air was now chill enough to make him shiver, and he gazed with certain
awe into the black depths. The camp, even with all its coarseness and
roughness, was better, and he walked swiftly back with his load of fuel.
They built a dozen fires within the circle of the wagons, and again Dick
was the most active and industrious of them all, doing his share,
Albert's, and something besides. When the fires were lighted they
burned rapidly and merrily, sending up great tongues of red or yellow
flame, which shed a flickering light over wagons, animals, and men. A
pleasant heat was suffused and Dick began to cook supper for Albert
and himself, bringing it from the wagon in which his brother and he
had a share. He fried bacon and strips of dried beef, boiled coffee, and
warmed slices of bread over the coals.
He saw with intense pleasure that Albert ate with a better appetite than
he had shown for days. As for himself, he was as hungry as a horse--he
always was on this great journey--and since there was plenty, he ate
long, and was happy.
Dick went to the wagon, and returned with a heavy cloak, which he
threw over Albert's shoulders.
"The night's getting colder," he said, "and you mustn't take any risks,
Al. There's one trouble about a camp fire in the open--your face can
burn while your back freezes."
Content fell over the camp. Even rough men of savage instincts are
willing to lie quiet when they are warm and well fed. Jokes, coarse but
invariably in good humor, were exchanged. The fires still burned
brightly, and the camp formed a core of light and warmth in the dark,
cold wilderness.
Albert, wrapped in the cloak, lay upon his side and elbow gazing
dreamily into the flames. Dick sat near him, frying a piece of bacon on
the end of a stick. Neither heard the step behind them because it was
noiseless, but both saw the tall figure of Bright Sun, as he came up to
their fire.

"Have a piece of bacon, Bright Sun," said Dick hospitably, holding out
the slice to him, and at the same time wondering whether the Indian
would take it.
Bright Sun shook his head.
"I thank you," he replied, "but I have eaten enough. How is Mr. Albert
Howard now?"
Dick appreciated the inquiry, whether or not it was prompted by
sympathy.
"Good," he replied. "Al's picking up. Haven't seen him eat as he did
to-night for months. If he keeps on this way, he'll devour a whole
buffalo as soon as he's able to kill one."
Bright Sun smiled, and sat down on the ground near them. It seemed to
the boy, a keen observer of his kind, that he wished to talk. Dick was
willing.
"Do you know," asked Bright Sun, "that reports of gold in the region to
the north, called by you the Black Hills, have come to us?"
"I heard some one speak of it two or three days ago," replied Dick, "but
I paid no attention to it."
Bright Sun looked thoughtfully into the fire, the glow of which fell full
upon his face, revealing every feature like carving. His nose was
hooked slightly, and to Dick it now looked like the beak of an eagle.
The somber eyes, too, expressed brooding and mastery alike.
Despite himself, Dick felt again that he was in the presence of power,
and he was oppressed by a sense of foreboding.
"It was worth attention," said Bright Sun in the slow, precise tones of
one who speaks a language not his own, but who speaks it perfectly.
"The white man's gold is calling to him loudly. It calls