y, but he only looked her through as if she were not there, and after
one or two more attempts she fell back and tried to talk to the squaw;
but the squaw only looked stolid, too, and shook her head. She did not
seem friendly. Margaret drew back into her old position and feasted her
eyes upon the distant hills.

The road was growing unfamiliar now. They were crossing rough ridges
with cliffs of red sandstone, and every step of the way was interesting.
Yet Margaret felt more and more how much she wanted to lie down and
sleep, and when at last in the dusk the Indians halted not far from a
little pool of rainwater and indicated that here they would camp for
the night, Margaret was too weary to question the decision. It had not
occurred to her that she would be on the way overnight before she met
her friends. Her knowledge of the way, and of distances, was but vague.
It is doubtful if she would have ventured had she known that she must
pass the night thus in the company of two strange savage creatures. Yet,
now that she was here and it was inevitable, she would not shrink, but
make the best of it. She tried to be friendly once more, and offered to
look out for the baby while the squaw gathered wood and made a fire. The
Indian was off looking after the horses, evidently expecting his wife to
do all the work.

Margaret watched a few minutes, while pretending to play with the baby,
who was both sleepy and hungry, yet held his emotions as stolidly as if
he were a grown person. Then she decided to take a hand in the supper.
She was hungry and could not bear that those dusky, dirty hands should
set forth her food, so she went to work cheerfully, giving directions as
if the Indian woman understood her, though she very soon discovered that
all her talk was as mere babbling to the other, and she might as well
hold her peace. The woman set a kettle of water over the fire, and
Margaret forestalled her next movement by cutting some pork and putting
it to cook in a little skillet she found among the provisions. The woman
watched her solemnly, not seeming to care; and so, silently, each went
about her own preparations.

The supper was a silent affair, and when it was over the squaw handed
Margaret a blanket. Suddenly she understood that this, and this alone,
was to be her bed for the night. The earth was there for a mattress,
and the sage-brush lent a partial shelter, the canopy of stars was
overhead.

A kind of panic took possession