ne, "but ez fur me I'm a man o' sense, a lazy man who don't work when
he don't hev to, an' I'm goin' to sleep."

He spread his blanket on the stone floor, lay down and kept his word.

"We might as well follow," said Henry. "Sol's a man of intelligence,
and, as he says, when there's nothing to do, rest."

"I ain't sleepy," said Tom Ross. "Guess there's no need uv a watch, but
I'll keep it awhile, anyhow."

He sat down on his blanket and leaned against the wall, near the mouth
of the room. The others stretched out, even as Shif'less Sol had done,
and breathing a sigh or two of satisfaction followed him into a land
without dreams.

Although Henry's sleep was dreamless, it did not last very long. He
awoke in three or four hours. It was quite dark, but, as he lay on his
back and gazed steadily, he was able to make out the figure of Silent
Tom, crouched on his blanket beside the door, his rifle across his
knees. Although saying nothing Henry had paid attention to what Paul had
said about the ancient cave man, and now it was easy for his fancy to
transform Ross into such a being. The rifle on his knees was his stone
club, and he watched by the opening all through the night lest an enemy
should come. For the present, at least, it was as much reality as
fancy, because here was the cave, and here they were, guarding against a
possible foe.

"Tom," he called softly.

Ross looked around.

"What is it?" he asked.

"I'm restless. I can't sleep any more, and, as I'm going to stay by the
opening, you'd better persuade yourself to go to sleep."

"Are you bent on watchin', Henry?"

"Yes, I intend to sit up."

"Then I'll go to sleep."

He lay down on his blanket, and Henry took his place by the wall.

CHAPTER III

THE INDIAN CAMP

The position of the great youth was comfortable, as he sat upon his
blanket, the curve of the wall fitting into the curve of his back, his
rifle resting across his knee, and his figure motionless. He carried in
his belt a pistol, the keen hatchet of the border and also a long
hunting knife, but it was the rifle upon which he depended mainly, a
beautiful piece, with its carved stock and long blue barrel, and in the
hands of its owner the deadliest weapon on the border.

Henry, like Tom, did not stir. He was a match for any Indian in
impassivity, and every nerve rested while he thus retained complete
command over his body. He could see from his position the bushes beyond
the opening,