"How would you like to spend a week with us, Roly?" asked Reitz, as the three were about to continue their journey. "You enjoy fishing, don't you?" Roly answered that he would like to stay very well, and his father readily consented. "You can take this tent," said the latter. "It's only ten miles to Moran's Camp, and I guess you can find your way there when the week's up." "Oh, yes!" declared Roly, without hesitation. "I'll get along all right." He added, as he counted a score of mosquitoes killed at one slap, "If you get a chance to send my head-net down, I guess I can use it." "We'll try to," said Mr. Bradford, as he and the Indian boy re-crossed the river on a mass of débris. No sooner had Coffee Jack exchanged a few words with the Indian family than he fell into a fit of the sulks. He cast more than one fond glance at a little Indian girl of about his own age, and Mr. Bradford heard the father of the family repeat the word "potlash" several times. As this term signifies a feast, it was clear that Coffee Jack had been invited to dine. Mr. Bradford had determined to push on a few miles in order to reach the Kah Sha gorge early next morning before the time of high water. But when he undertook to find the trail, which was here invisible across a level deposit of small stones, he found himself baffled. "Where's the Shorty Creek trail, Coffee Jack?" he asked. "Shorty Kick t'ail?" said Coffee, with well-feigned innocence. "I dunno." Now, Coffee Jack had been uniformly treated with kindness, and was certain to be so long as he deserved it, but when he said, "I dunno," Mr. Bradford had every reason to think he was stretching the truth and presuming upon his own good-nature. In view of the falsehood he resolved to teach the boy his duty. It would never do to let him override the will of his employer. "You don't know?" repeated Mr. Bradford, with the frown and voice of a thunder-cloud. "Tell me where that trail is, quick!" As he said this, he raised his stick so threateningly over Coffee Jack's head that the boy, fearing instant annihilation, produced the information with incredible speed. "Shorty Kick t'ail there," said he, pointing to the edge of a grove of great balm-of-Gilead trees, to which he led the way without another word. At the first stream, perhaps two miles beyond, Coffee Jack declared that there was no more water for five miles. He had evidently obtained information regarding the new trail from the Indian at the foot of the lake, and as Mr. Bradford did not believe the lad would lie again, he halted for the night. The white man all the while had a tender place in his heart for the young Indian lover, and when the boy asked permission to go back, he readily gave it. So Coffee Jack, delighted, ran swiftly down the trail toward the dusky little maiden and the "potlash." CHAPTER XXIX LOST IN THE MOUNTAINS