Already
Little Thunder was awake and busy with the fire in the cracked and rusty
stove. Cameron lay still and watched. Silently, swiftly the Indian moved
about his work till the fire began to roar and the pot of snow on the
top to melt. Then the trader awoke. With a single movement he was out
upon the floor.
"All hands awake!" he shouted. "Aha, Mr. Cameron! Good sleep, eh? Slept
like a bear myself. Now grub, and off! Still blowing, eh? Well, so
much the better. There is a spot thirty miles on where we will be snug
enough. How's breakfast, Little Thunder? This is our only chance to-day,
so don't spare the grub."
Cameron made but slight reply. He was stiff and sore with the cold and
the long ride of the day before. This, however, he minded but little. If
he could only guess what lay before him. He was torn between anxiety and
indignation. He could hardly make himself believe that he was alive and
in his waking senses. Twenty-four hours ago he was breakfasting with
McIvor and his gang in the camp by The Bow; now he was twenty or thirty
miles away in the heart of the mountains and practically a prisoner in
the hands of as blood-thirsty a looking Indian as he had ever seen, and
a man who remained to him an inexplicable mystery. Who and what was
this man? He scanned his face in the growing light.
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