Altsheler Joseph Alexander
The Quest of the Four: A Story of the Comanches and Buena Vista

CHAPTER XXI
THE NOTE OF A MELODY

Phil and Arenberg were undertaking this journeybecause they wished to make one of their usualthorough scouts. It merely happened to be theirday, as John and Breakstone had gone on the day preceding.They were well wrapped up, with their ear-muffs onand with big moccasins that they had made to go overtheir shoes. The snow was very light and dry, andoffered little obstacle to the horses, which were fat andstrong with good feeding.

"We certainly leave a fine trail, Hans," said Phil, looking back at the impressions made by their horse'shoofs.

"It iss so," said Arenberg, "but since we hunt peopleit iss not our object to hide ourselves. Do you noticehow beautiful iss the forest, Herr Philip? All the treesare white with the snow. It iss a great tracery, silversometimes and gold sometimes as the sun falls, and itextends farther than we can see. It must often have beensuch as this in the great Teutonic forest where myancestors dwelled thousands of years ago. Here in thesewoods I have this feeling at times, as if the centurieswere rolled back, and last night I dreamed a strangedream."

"What was the dream?"

"I don't know. That was the strange part of it. Iawoke and I knew that I had dreamed a strange dreamwhich was not unpleasant, but, try as hard as I would,I could not remember anything about it. What do youthink that portends, Herr Philip?"

"I do not know. Perhaps when we want a thing somuch and think about it so much the imagination, whilewe are asleep and the will is dead, forms a picture of itthat remains in our possession when we awake. But it'sjust surmise. I don't know anything about it."

"Nor do I," said Arenberg, "but sometimes I believe.Now I suggest that we ride toward the northwest. Ibelieve that good hunting grounds are in that directionbeyond this forest, and perhaps the Comanches may havebeen on the plain there, and may now be seeking shelterin this wilderness."

"It's as good a theory as any," said Phil, "and we'lltry it."

They rode for several hours toward the northwest, passingfrom the region of heavy forest into that of the scrubtimber, and again into heavy forest as they approachedthe slopes of the higher mountains. They were now atleast twenty miles from The Silver Cup, and it was pastmidday. They had brought jerked venison with them, and they ate their noon meal on horseback. But Philwanted water, and he saw a clear white line leadingamong the trees, which he thought might indicate a brookflowing under the ice and snow. He dismounted, scrapedaway the snow and found that he was right. He brokethe ice, took a good drink, and then noticed a trail onthe far side of the brook. It was unmistakably that of asingle horse, and he called excitedly to Arenberg.

"Look, Hans," he said. "Doesn't this show that anIndian pony has passed here?"

Arenberg came at once, and when he looked down atthe trail his eyes sparkled with a kind of exultant joy.But he showed no excitement otherwise.

"It iss the trail of a single Indian pony," he said."We will follow it. It iss not likely that a lone warriorrides in this region. He goes to join others."

Phil looked closely at Arenberg. He was quite surethat his comrade considered this a sign, the first signthat had come in the long, long search. He knew howthe stout heart must be throbbing within the German'spowerful chest.

"Lead on, Hans," he said. "I think you're right."

The two followed the trail at a good walk. It lay beforethem in the snow as plain as a railroad track. Therewas but little undergrowth here, and they saw far amongthe stems of the trees. They were quite sure that dangerlay before them, since they might ride at any momentinto an ambush, but they kept on without hesitation, although they watched well with two pairs of unusuallykeen eyes. In this manner they rode about five miles, and then Arenberg's eyes began to scintillate again. Thepony's trail was merged into that of three or four morecoming from the north.

"It iss so! It iss so!" he said softly, althoughexcitement now showed in his tone. "The Comanches havecome! Presently more riders will enter the trail, andbeyond will lie their camp. Now, young Herr Philip, itiss for us to go with great care."

A mile farther the trail was merged with that of atleast twenty horsemen. Phil himself did not doubt thatthe new Indian camp lay before them. The forest wasnow heavy with undergrowth here and there, for which hewas thankful, since it afforded hiding for Arenberg andhimself, while the trail was so broad that they could notpossibly miss it. There was another fortunate circumstance.They had been longer on the trail than they hadrealized, and the twilight was now coming fast. Italready lay in deep shadows over the vast, lonelywilderness. Although he was very near, Phil saw Arenberg'sfigure enveloped in a sort of black mist, and the horse'sfeet made but little sound on the soft snow. At intervalsthe two stopped to listen, because there was no doubt nowin the mind of either that they were close to a largeIndian camp. A half hour of this, and they stopped longerthan usual. Both distinctly heard a low chant. Arenbergknew that it was the song of Indian women at work.

"Phil," he said, "we are close by. Let us leave ourhorses here and steal forward. We may lose the horsesor we may not, but we cannot scout on horseback closeup to the Indian camp."

Phil did not hesitate. They fastened the horses toswinging boughs in dense thickets, trusting them to thefortune that had been kind thus far, and then creptthrough the snow and among the frees toward the lowsound of the chant. At the edge of a thicket of scrubcedar they knelt down and looked through the snow-ladenbranches into an Indian village that lay in the valleybeyond.

It was a broad valley, with a creek now frozen overrunning through it, and the village, a large one, wasevidently not more than a day or two old, as many of thelodges were not yet finished. All these lodges were ofbuffalo skin on poles, and the squaws were still at workon some of them. Others were beating buffalo meat ordeer meat before the cooking fires, and yet others draggedfrom the snow the dead wood that lay about plentifully.Many warriors were visible here and there amid thebackground of flame, but they merely lounged, leaving thework to the squaws.

"It may be the band of Black Panther," said Phil.

"I think it iss," said Arenberg, "but I also think ithas been swollen by the addition of another band or two."

The two were lying so close under the dwarf pinesthat Phil's arm was pressed against Arenberg's side, andhe could feel the German trembling all over. Phil knewperfectly that it was not fear, but a powerful emotionthat could thus shake the strong soul of his friend.Evidently the Indians had no thought of a foreign presencein a region so far from any settlement. A feeling ofgood-humor seemed to pervade the village. It was obviousthat they had found game in abundance, and thus theIndian's greatest want was filled.

Some of the Indian women continued the low hummingchant that Phil and Arenberg had first heard, andothers chattered as they worked about the fires. ButArenberg's eyes were for neither men nor women. Hewas watching a group of children at the outskirts. Theywere mostly boys, ranging in years from eight to thirteen, and, despite the darkness and the distance, he followedthem with a gaze so intense, so full of longing, thatit was painful to Phil who saw it. But it was impossibleto distinguish. It was merely a group of Indian lads, half at play, half at work, and it would have been follyfor the two to go closer.

But only hope was in the soul of Arenberg. Themystic spell of the great woods was on him, and he did notbelieve that he had come so far merely to lose at last.Phil suddenly felt his great frame shake under a strongerquiver of emotion than before. About a third of theIndian boys, carrying tin pails or stone jars, moved upthe creek.

"Come," whispered Arenberg, in intense excitement."They're going after water, where it is not defiled byoffal from the village! We'll follow them on this side ofthe creek! See, the dwarf pines continue along the bankindefinitely!"

Arenberg led the way, treading softly in the snow.He was now the director, and Phil obeyed him in everything.Besides his own perception of the critical, Philcaught some of the intense excitement that surchargedevery pore of Arenberg's being. He felt sure thatsomething was going to happen. The thought was like fire inhis brain.

The boys moved on toward a point where the ice hadbeen broken already. The creek curved, and the villagebehind them passed out of sight, although its soundscould yet be heard plainly. Directly they came to thewater hole and filled the pails and jars. Arenberg'sexcitement was increasing. He was much closer to themnow, and again he studied every figure with a concentrationof vision that was extraordinary. Yet the night wasalready dark, the figures were indistinct, and, to Phil atleast, one figure, barring size, looked just like another.

The boys turned away, walked perhaps a dozen paces, and then Phil heard by his side a soft whistle, low, melodious, a bar of some quaint old song. It might have beenmistaken in a summer night for the song of a bird. Theboys stopped, but moved on again in a moment, thinkingperhaps it was only fancy. Another ten feet, and thatmelodious whistle came again, lower than ever, butcontinuing the quaint old song. The third boy from therear stopped and listened a little longer than the others.But the sound had been so faint, so clever an approach tothe sighing of the wind among the pines, that the otherboys seemed to take no notice of it. Arenberg wasmoving along in a parallel line with them, keeping behindthe pines. Phil followed close behind him, and once morehe put his hand on his arm. Now he felt, with increasingforce, that the man was shaken by some tremendousinternal excitement.

The file of Indian boys moved on, save the one whohad been third from the last. He was carrying a pail ofwater, and he lingered, looking cautiously in thedirection whence the low whistle had come. He was a small, strong figure, in Indian dress, a fur cap on his head. Heseemed to be struggling with some memory, some flashout of the past. Then Arenberg, rising above the breast-workof pines, his head showing clearly over the topmostfringe, whistled a third bar of the old German folk song,so low, so faint that to Phil himself it was scarcely morethan the sighing of the wind. The boy straightened upand the pail of water dropped from his hands upon thesoft snow. Then he pursed his lips and whistled softly, continuing the lines of the melody.

An extraordinary thrill, almost like the chill of thesupernatural, ran down Phil's back, but it was nothingto the emotion that shook the German. With a suddencry: "It iss he!" Arenberg leaped entirely over the pinebushes, ran across the frozen creek, and snatched up theboy in his arms. It was Phil then who retained hiscoolness, luckily for them both. He seized the fallen rifleand called:

"Come! Come, Hans, come with the boy, we mustride for our lives now!"

Arenberg came suddenly back to the real world andthe presence of great danger, just when he had found hisson. He lifted the boy in his arms, ran with him acrossthe creek, up the slope, and through the bushes. LittleBilly scarcely stirred, but remained with his arms claspedaround his father's neck. Already hostile sounds werecoming from the Indian camp. The Indian boys, at thesound of Arenberg's footsteps, had turned back, and hadseen what had happened.

"We must reach the horses," cried Phil, retaininghis full presence of mind. "If we can do that beforethey wing us we'll escape. Run ahead. I'll bring yourrifle."

Arenberg, despite the weight of his boy, rushedtoward the horses. Phil kept close behind, carrying thetwo rifles. From the village came a long, fierce cry, theComanche war whoop. Then it came back from thesnowy forest in faint, dying echoes, full of menace.Phil knew that in a few moments the alert warriors wouldbe on their ponies and in full pursuit.

"Faster, Hans! Faster!" he cried. "Never mindhow much noise we may make now or how broad a trailwe may leave! To the horses! To the horses!"

The little boy was perfectly silent, clinging to hisfather's neck, and Arenberg himself did not speak now.In a minute they reached the horses, untied them, andsprang upon their backs, Billy, as they always called himhereafter, sitting with a sure seat behind his father.Phil handed Arenberg his rifle:

"Take it," he said. "You may need it!"

Arenberg received the weapon mechanically. Before,he had been the leader. Now Phil took the position.He dashed away in the forest, turning toward the east, and the hoofs of Arenberg's horse thudded on the snow athis flank. They heard behind them the second shout ofthe Comanches, who had now crossed the creek on theirponies. Arenberg suddenly lifted his boy about andplaced him in front of him. Phil understood. If abullet came, it was now Arenberg instead of his boy whowould receive it.

But it was not in vain that their horses had restedand eaten the sweet, clean grass so long. Now they obeyedthe sudden call upon accumulated strength and energy, and, despite the double burden that Arenberg's horsebore, raced on at a speed that yet held the Indian poniesout of rifle shot.

"We must keep to the east, Hans," said Phil, "becauseif we brought them down on our friends at The SilverCup we'd all be overpowered. Maybe we can shakethem off. If so, we'll take a wide curve to our place.You ride a little ahead now. I can use the rifle better,as you have to look out for Billy besides yourself."

Arenberg urged his horse to greater speed and continuedabout a length ahead of Phil. Fortunately theforest was open here, and they could go at good speedwithout the dangers of tripping or becoming entangled.Phil looked back for the first time. He saw at somedistance a half dozen Comanches on their ponies, mereshadowy outlines in the dusk, but he knew that morewere behind them. His heart sank a little, too, when heremembered the tenacity of the Indians in pursuit.

"They're not gaining, Hans," he said, "and if theydo I'll shoot at the first who comes up. Keep a watchfor a good path, and I'll follow."

They galloped on an hour perhaps, and then theIndians began to yell again. Two or three fired theirrifles, although the bullets fell short.

"Don't worry, Hans," called Phil. "They're merelytrying to frighten us. They have not gained."

He sent back a taunting cry, twirled his own rifle indefiance, and then remembered that it was the slender, long-barreled Kentucky weapon, the highest of its type.He took another glance backward, but this was a measuringone. "It will reach," was his thought. He turnedhis whole body from the hips up in his saddle, took swiftaim at the leading Comanche, and fired. The whitesmoke puffed from the muzzle of his rifle, the report wasuncommonly loud and sharp in the night, and the bulletwent home. The leading Indian fell from his pony inthe snow, and the pony ran away. A fierce cry of ragecame from the Comanches.

"It was well done, Herr Philip," said Arenberg. Hedid not look back, but he knew from the cry of theIndians that Phil's bullet had struck its target. TheComanches dropped back somewhat, but they were still nearenough to keep the two flying horses in sight. Phil andArenberg maintained their course, which was leading farfrom The Silver Cup. Phil's brain was cooling with thelong gallop, and his nerves were becoming steadier. Thechange in himself caused him to notice other changesaround him.

The air felt damp to his face, and the night seemedto have grown darker. He thought at first that it wasmere fancy, but when he looked up he knew that it wasthe truth. He could not see the moon, and, just as helooked, the last star winked and went out. The damptouch on his face was that of a snowflake, and, as he stilllooked, the dark clouds stalked somberly across the sky.

"The snow! the snow," he murmured in eager prayer."Let it come! It will save us!"

Another and larger flake dropped on his face, and-after it, came more, falling fast now, large and feathery.He looked back for the last time. Not a single pursuercould be seen in the heavy gloom. He felt that theirchance had come. He rode up by the side of Arenberg.

"Hans," he said, "turn sharp to the south. Lookhow the snow comes down! It is impossible for them tofollow us now. It does not matter how we blunder alongexcept that we must keep close together."

"It iss good," said Arenberg, as he turned his horse'shead. "The great God is putting a veil about us, andwe are saved!"

He spoke with unaffected solemnity, and Phil felt thathis words were true. He felt, too, that they would nothave escaped had it not been for the great snow that wasnow coming down. Surely a power had intervened intheir behalf.

They rode southward for about an hour through forest, comparatively free from undergrowth, the two horseskeeping so close together that the knees of their riderstouched. The snow continued to fall, and they went on, always in a dense white gloom, leaving to their horses thechoice of the path. They stopped finally under a hugetree, where they were sheltered, in some degree, from thesnow, and Arenberg made the boy more comfortable onthe saddle behind.

"Hello, Billy," said Phil. "Do you know thatyou've been away from home a long time? Your fatherwas beginning to fear that you'd never come back."

The boy smiled, and, despite the Indian paint on hisface, Phil saw there the blue eyes and features ofArenberg. He guessed, too, that the black hair under the capwould become gold as soon as the paint wore off.

"I not know at first," said Billy, speaking slowly andhesitatingly, as if it were difficult for him to rememberthe English language, "but the song when I hear it one, two, three times, then it come back and I answered. Iknew my father, too, when he picked me up."

Arenberg gave him a squeeze, then he produced fromhis pocket some jerked venison, which Billy ate eagerly.

"He's strong and hearty, that's evident," said Phil."And, since we cannot leave any trail while the snow ispouring down in this way, I suggest that we let our horsesrest for awhile, and then ride as straight as we can forThe Silver Cup."

"It iss well," said Arenberg. "Nothing but onechance in a thousand could bring them upon us now, andGod iss so good that I do not think He will let thatchance happen."

Arenberg spoke very quietly, but Phil saw that thewords came from his heart. The boy still preserved thesingular stillness which he seemed to have learned fromthe Indians, but he held firmly to his father. Now andthen he looked curiously at Phil. Phil chucked himunder the chin and said:

"Quite a snow, isn't it, Billy?"

"I'm not afraid of snow," rejoined the boy, in a tonethat seemed to defy any kind of a storm.

"Good thing," said Phil, "but this is a fine snow, aparticularly fine snow. It has probably saved us all."

"Where are you going?" asked Billy.

"Where are we going?" said Phil. "Well, when thissnow lightens a little we are going to ride a long distancethrough the woods. Perhaps we'll ride until morning.Then, when morning comes, we'll keep on riding, althoughit may not be in the forest. We'll make a greatcircle to the south, and there, at the edge of the forest,we'll come to a beautiful clear little lake that four men Iknow call The Silver Cup, only you can't get at thecontents of that cup just now, as it has a fine ice covering.But overlooking The Silver Cup is a fine rocky hollowwith a neat little thatched cabin in it. We call thehollow and the cabin The Dip, and in it are two of the fourpersons, your father and I being the other two.

"It's a fine little place, a snug little place, Billy, andthere isn't any lodge anywhere on this whole continent ofNorth America that is equal to it. There is a big flatstone at one end on which we build our fire, and justabove it is a vent to carry off the smoke.

"Hanging about that cabin are some of the mostbeautiful skins and furs you ever saw. And then wehave rifles and pistols and knives and hatchets, and ashovel and an ax or two, and big soft blankets, and, when we are all in the hut at night, every fellow rolled inhis warm blanket, as you will be, being a brave newcomrade, and when the wind roars outside, and the hail andthe snow beat against it and never touch you, then youfeel just about as fine as anybody can ever feel. It'ssurely a glorious life that's ahead of you, Billy Arenberg.Those other two fellows who are waiting for you, Billy, are as good as any you ever saw. One of them is mybrother, who has just escaped from a great prison, wherewicked men held him for a long time, just as you haveescaped, Billy, from the savages, to whom you don'tbelong, and the other is the bravest, oddest, wisest, funniest man you ever saw. You can't help liking him thevery first moment you see him. He talks a lot, but it'sall worth hearing. Now and then he makes up queerrhymes. I don't think he could get them printed, butwe like them all the same, and they always mean justwhat they say, which isn't generally the way of poetry. Isee right now, Billy, that that man and you are going tobe great friends. His name is William, just like yours,William Breakstone, but he's Bill and you are Billy. Itwill be fine to have a Bill and a Billy around the camp."

The boy's eyes glistened. All sorts of emotion awokewithin him.

"Won't it be fine?" he said. "I want to see that camp."

Phil had spoken with purpose. He had seen whatArenberg, thinking only of his recovered son, had failedto see, that the boy, taken in his early childhood andheld so long, had acquired something of the Indiannature. He had recognized his father and he had clung tohim, but he was primitive and as wild as a hawk. Theescape from the Indian village had been no escape for himat all, merely a transference. Phil now devoted himselfto the task of calling him back to the white world towhich he belonged.

All the time as they rode forward in the snow, Philtalked to him of the great things that were to be seenwhere the white men dwelled. He made their livesinfinitely grander and more varied than those of the Indians.He told of the mighty battle in which his father had beena combatant. Here the boy's eyes glistened more than ever.

"My father is a great warrior," he exclaimed happily.

"One of the greatest that ever lived," said Phil."There were more men, Billy, at that place we call BuenaVista than all the Comanche warriors put together severaltimes over. And there were many cannon, great guns onwheels, shooting bullets as big as your head and bigger, and the battle went on all day. You couldn't hearyourself speak, the cannon and rifles roared so terribly andwithout ever stopping, and the smoke was greater thanthat of the biggest prairie fire you ever saw, andthousands of men and horses, with long lances, charged againand again. And your father stood there all day helpingto beat them back."

Phil did not wish to speak so much of battle anddanger, but he judged that this would appeal most to theboy, who had been taught by the Comanches that valorand fighting were the greatest of all things. The boyexclaimed:

"My father is one of the greatest of all warriors! Heis a chief! He and you and I and the other two of whomyou speak will go with a great army and beat theMexicans again!"

Phil laughed and turned the talk more to the chase, the building of cabins in the wilderness, and of greatexplorations across the prairies and through the hills. Hestill held the interest of the boy, and Phil saw the soul ofthe white race growing stronger and stronger within him.Arenberg listened, too, and at last he understood. Hegave his comrade a look of gratitude. That, Phil alwaysconsidered one of the greatest rewards he ever received.

They finally found a partial shelter in a ravineprotected by trees, and here they dismounted in order to restthe horses and shake the snow from themselves. Butthey were not suffering from the snow. They were allwarmly clad, and, as usual in the West in winter, Philand Arenberg carried heavy blankets at their saddlehorns. One of these had already been wrapped aroundBilly, and when they dismounted he remained clad in itsfolds. The fall of snow was lightening somewhat, enablingthem to see perhaps twenty feet farther into it, but it wasstill a vast white gloom.

"I think it will stop before morning," said Arenberg,"and then we can make much greater speed. Are yousleepy, Billy?"

"I do not sleep when we are in danger," replied the boy.

He spoke with such youthful pride that Phil smiled.Yet the boy meant it. His wild life had certainly harmedneither his spirit nor his body. He was taller andheavier than most boys of his age, and Phil could seethat he was as wiry and sinewy as a young panther. Heseemed to endure the hardships of the night quite as wellas Phil or his father.

"Snow is warm if there is something between you andit," said Phil. "Let's scrape out a place here againstthe bank, throw up the snow around us in walls, and restuntil daylight. It will be a little hard on the horses, butthey seem to be doing fairly well there against the trees."

"It iss wisdom that you speak," said Arenberg.

They threw back the snow until they made a denagainst the cliff, and the three, wrapped from head tofoot in their heavy blankets, crouched in it close together.The snow fell upon the blankets, and, at times, when itlay too thick, they threw it all off. Billy seemedperfectly contented. Either he had no awe of the wilderness,or the presence of the others was enough for him. Hehad all the quietness and taciturnity of a little Indianlad. He did not speak at all, and did not move. Byand by his eyes closed and he slept soundly. Arenbergdrew the blanket a little more closely, until only themouth and nose showed from the blanket, his breathmaking a white rim around the aperture. Then Arenbergsaid in a whisper to Phil:

"Young Herr Philip, you have helped me to get backmy own. I cannot repay you."

"I am repaying you," said Phil. "You have alreadyhelped me."

After that they did not speak for a long time. Thesnow became lighter and lighter, then it ceased entirely.The horses were quiet in the shelter of the trees, and Philwas so snug and warm that he fell into a beautiful sleep, from which he was aroused by Arenberg.

"It iss day, Herr Philip," he said. "Look how thesun shines on the snow."

Phil drew himself out of the hole and looked at awhite world, tinted silver in the early dawn.

"Yes, it is time for us to go," he said. "WakeBilly, and we'll ride."

But Billy was already awake, his small face illuminedwith curiosity and interest.

"Now we will ride," he said to Phil, "and see themen of whom you have told me."

They had some food left, and, after eating it to thelast particle, they mounted their horses and rode with asmuch speed as was wise in the deep snow. Both Philand Arenberg had an excellent idea of direction, and, guided by the sun, they rode straight toward The SilverCup. But the snow was so deep and heavy that theywere compelled to stop often to let their horses rest, andnearly a whole day passed before they saw the familiartrees and slopes that marked the approach to The SilverCup. It was a glad sight. They were thoroughlyexhausted with a day of plowing through the snow, andthe horses were in the same condition. A trace of smokemarked the point at which The Dip lay.

"They're at home to callers, or at least one of themis," said Phil, "and I'll be glad to be on the inside ofthat hut again, with real red coals before me on a stonehearth."

In order to give the horses an equal chance, Billy, through the day, had ridden alternately behind Phil andhis father. Now he was behind Arenberg, and he leanedforward eagerly to see. Before him lay a sort of pathtrampled in the snow, and, suddenly leaping from thehorse, he ran forward with the agility and speed of a deer.

Bill Breakstone and John Bedford were inside thelittle thatched hut, and the red coals of which Phil hadspoken in fancy were really burning on the hearth. Theyhad made no search for Phil and Arenberg in the deepsnow, knowing that such a thing was useless. There wasnot one chance in a thousand that they could find them, while Phil and Arenberg, strong, capable, and brave, were sure to come back. So they took their rest andmade the place as comfortable as possible for the returnof their partners, who would certainly be cold and hungry.

"John, keep that coffee ready to put on," said BillBreakstone. "You know that your brother loves coffeewhen he comes in out of the snow and the cold."

"It will be ready any minute," replied John Bedford."And I'm glad, Bill, you thought of that little pot of teafor Arenberg. You know he loves to have it about oncea week."

"So I do," said Bill Breakstone. "Good old Hans.I suppose that he and Phil made a burrow somewhere inthe woods, and slept in it last night. Naturally it's slowtraveling back here through such a deep snow. Now whatunder the sun is that?"

The rude door of their little thatch was suddenlythrown open, and a small painted face thrust in. Butthe eyes in the painted face staring at them so intently, were blue, although they did not then notice the fact.

"A little Indian boy," said Bill Breakstone, rising."Probably he got lost from a band in the storm and hasstumbled upon us. We wouldn't welcome a lot ofwarriors, but we won't repel one boy. Come in, Red Jacket,Tecumseh, Powhatan, or whatever your name may be.We won't hurt you."

To his immense surprise the boy walked boldly in, came straight up to him, and said, in excellent English: "I know that you are Bill Breakstone, and I want tohear you make rhymes."

Bill stared and stared. It was perhaps the first andlast time in his life that he was dumfounded. But twolarger figures came in immediately behind the boy, andPhil said:

"Mr. William Breakstone, I wish to introduce ournew friend and comrade, Master William Arenberg. As'William' seems a trifle pompous, he is to be known asBilly to distinguish him from you, who remain the Billthat you always have been. Look this way, Billy, andyou will see my brother, John Bedford."