Page:The trail of the golden horn.djvu/222

218 was his heart. His bright hopes had all vanished, and he was an outcast. His own people would not listen to his message, preferring the ways of evil.

When some distance from the encampment, and beyond the sound of the revellers, he stopped, built a fire, spread a supply of fir boughs, and passed the night alone. No sleep came to his eyes as he squatted there thinking of all that had taken place. He knew how useless it would be to go back to those Indians in the morning. They would be either asleep, or more quarrelsome than ever owing to the effects of the liquor. They would not listen to him, anyway, so he believed. But he must have food, and the nearest place where this could be obtained was the police patrol-house miles away. He would go there, rest, and then make his way to the one more Indian encampment which he knew was beyond. Perhaps the Indians there might be willing to listen to him. He would try, anyway, even though they should reject his message.

Long before daylight he was once more on his way. He had eaten the last of his small supply of dried meat he had brought with him, and this strengthened him for the journey. He hoped to reach the patrol-house some time during the day, and there he would find rest and food. He thought little, however, about himself. It was his own people that worried him, and the condition of the Gikhi at The Gap.

Hour after hour he plodded steadily onward, up hill and down, through thick forests, across lakes, and long, sweeping wild meadows. He had travelled miles by the time the dawn of a new day dispelled the darkness of night, and the sun rose above the tops of the pointed trees. He followed no trail, and he needed none, for the region was familiar to him, and he was perfectly