a cooking time," replied Murray; "and then we must have a good
nap."

"I'll do a little eating, too, while I'm cooking."

Neither of them neglected that duty, but Murray took the two plump
hind-quarters of the doe and roasted them whole. How?--with no stove,
no oven, no kitchen tools of any sort or description?

Two forked sticks were set firmly in the ground on either side, in
front of the fire, and a strong stick laid across from fork to fork at
about four feet from the ground; then a leg of venison, hung to this
cross-piece by a thong of raw deer-skin, was turned around and around
until the thong would twist no tighter. When it was let go the weight
of the meat kept it from untwisting too fast; but it turned around in
the opposite direction for ever so long, and it was roasting all the
while.

It was precisely what our own great-grandmothers used to call a
"roasting-jack," and all it required was somebody to wind it up when it
ran down, so that the meat could be evenly done all over.

Meantime the broiling and eating of smaller pieces went right on, and
neither Steve nor his friend seemed to have lost their appetite by
their long ride and hard work.

"Now, Steve, lie down. Sleep all you can."

"Sha'n't you take a rest?"

"Don't need much. Young eyes call for more sleep than old ones. Lie
right down and never mind me. I'll call you when your time comes."

Steve was used to paying the old man a pretty good kind of obedience,
and he was glad enough to obey him now. He was quickly asleep under a
spreading tree, while Murray sat down before the fire, as if to "mind
the roast." There was something more important than venison for him to
think of, however. He had taken off his hat, and his white head was
bare. With the strong light of the camp-fire shining upon his
weather-beaten face he would have made a good subject for a painter.
He was thinking deeply--so deeply that at last he thought aloud:

"I am a white man. I've been an Indian long enough. Yes, I think I'll
try it. That would be better than killing all the Apaches between this
and the California line."

He did not explain what it was he meant to try, or why it would be so
much better than killing Apaches; but the stern expression on his face
grew milder and milder, until it almost seemed as if he were smiling,
and even Steve Harrison had never seen him do that.

The venison roasts were wound up, twisted tight again and again, and at
last