As soon as Bess heard the breakfast fire cracking she crept out of her bed and hurriedly dressed herself. “Peter Pan” begged her softly, so that the other sleepers might not be disturbed, to “Wait a min’t for me.” They looked like two hungry birds as they perched on a log near where Joe was preparing breakfast. Snug in their red sweaters and tams they sat with arms entwined about each other, already fast and true friends.
“Did you ever see Mr. George ‘flop’ pan-cakes?” questioned “Peter Pan,” as she saw with utter satisfaction a creamy mixture being stirred by the cook. “No? Well, I’ll have him give a free exhibition this morning immediately before the big performance,” added the child, with artful mimicry of the man she had heard at the circus during the summer.
“You see, he just takes the frying pan like this—gives it two or three little wiggles—then throws the pan-cake up in the air and makes it turn a ‘somerset’ like the circus performer did, and then lets it splash back into the pan. Ask Joe to let us try one before the others come to breakfast. Shall we?”
All thoughts of any attempts in the culinary art were displaced by the soft sound of a moccasined foot behind them. “Peter Pan” clung tightly to Bess’ hand as they watched the slow approach of the old Indian. What a wrinkled, old visage, hardened by the vicissitudes of years, attenuated by many fasts. A mat of coarse, grey hair partially covered eyes that were still keen and undimmed by the ravages of time. The tattered blanket illy concealed his quivering form, while worn and ragged moccasins scarcely protected his feet from the stones and thorns.
Bess’ heart melted by the picture of abject want, and with a few, quick signs she asked the old Indian “would he eat.” A grin of acquiescence was her reply, and soon she had placed before him such a feast as he had never seen before. He fell to devouring the food, almost like a hungry dog, but was checked by a decisive touch on the shoulder. A look of surprise filled his eyes as he paused with open mouth ready to receive the next morsel.
“Shame;” firmly said the girl; “Why forget to thank God?” and she raised her hand toward heaven. Slowly the food was replaced upon the plate; a look of incredulity rested for a moment upon the seamed, old face; then with eyes turned toward the crests of the hills all radiant with the glow of the morning, a withered, dirty hand reverently made the sign of the cross. When his hunger was appeased he bestowed upon his benefactor a look of thanks.
“You go catch fish. Bring nice trout here. More muck-a-muck tonight,” instructed Bess with numerous gestures.
The old Indian nodded that he understood and then explained his futile attempt to catch fish the day before. No word did he speak. He waved his hand slowly toward the direction of the North shore of the Big Arm, showed how he had cast the line again and again, but had caught no fish; how he had fished unceasingly all the while the sun arose from its eastern horizon to the zenith and until it had descended to rest behind the hills; how he had returned to his teepee with his willow switch empty and had gone hungry to sleep. Now it was again day! He motioned that he would walk far along the lake’s opposite shore where the rocks jutted into the water—there—could she see? Pointing to some beef which was hung up in the tree he made Bess understand that with the aid of that for bait he could catch the wily trout as fast as he could cast the hook, and that soon his basket of willows and leaves would be full. Soon he was sent on his way rejoicing,—happy because his stomach’s craving had ceased, glad because of the hope of another meal.
The tardy members of the party had at last come to breakfast. Mr. George was prevailed upon to “flop” the pan-cakes, and “Peter Pan’s” number increased alarmingly.
“I eat so many because it is such fun to watch them perform, not because I like them,” she assured her mother, as she watched the marvelous feat repeated.
“My name will now have to be ‘Peter Pan-cake,’ ’cause I’m so full,” she said, as she gathered up the remaining few and fed them to the waiting dogs.
“Oh! Bess—come see Gladstone!” she cried gleefully, as she watched the dog dig a nice little hole in the leaves and then bury his breakfast. How artfully he scraped the twigs and dirt together in long sweeps with his nose, and then pressed it down firmly.
“You see,” she explained, “he does it that way so that the other dogs can’t find it. Then when he gets hungry he goes and digs up his—his—why, his money, and eats it.”
“Money,” laughed Bess, heartily. “I know—you mean cache, don’t you, dear?”
“Oh, yes! Mr. George, an’ he knows everything about dogs, told me what it was, and I couldn’t quite remember, you see. Once he told me all about Jack’s grandmothers and grandfathers and uncles and all the family, and he called it a legacy or something like that. Don’t you think it would be grand to know so much about dogs?” chatted the tiny girl to her interested listener.
Soon everything was ready to start for the day’s hunt; lunch basket filled, guns and ammunition ready, dogs eager to be off, and a wagon filled with hearty, happy people. They would try the stubble of the wheat fields on the Baptiste ranch today, and all felt confident already of much sport and many birds.
“Honk—honk—honk” greeted their ears before many miles had passed behind them. Such scrambling for guns! Such hurrying to get a good position! Such banging of shells! “Honk—honk”—and the geese went sailing on.
“Guess the weather isn’t right for a goose,” ventured “Peter Pan,” the only one who felt disposed to make any explanation.
But the weather proved just right for chickens! And the hunters desisted because they were ashamed to slaughter more.
Bess found the Indian squatted at a comfortable distance from the “kitchen fire” waiting her, upon her return. While the others were busy with the birds, or the horses, or supper preparations, she closed her deal for the fish. Spread out upon the large, green thimble-berry leaves were several beautiful speckled and salmon-tinted trout, all large and firm. The old Indian motioned that she was to have them all and that he would keep those left in the basket. Bess peeped inquisitively into the nest of leaves and there beheld—oh! such beauties! Shiny brook trout! They should be the feast. She showed with convincing gestures her unfeigned contempt for large fish when the lovely small ones were to be had. Yes, he might return these to the basket and leave the small ones for her.
At first the grizzled old man looked at her as if he were deeply puzzled. Did she really mean that she preferred the small fish! A queer, hesitating smile slowly began to spread over his face as he reluctantly drew out the fish, one by one, and placed them on the leaves. Several times he paused, and by numerous frantic gestures and gutteral sounds asked again if she really wished him to replace the larger fish.
At last, so completely was he assured, he quickly flung the remaining beauties into the basket, snatched the parcel of food which the cook had prepared for him and arose to hasten away. Again he was checked by a touch on the arm and with his hand half raised again to make the sign of thanks, his astonishment was even greater increased by a proffered half-dollar.
“Trout for breakfast!” Bess called cheerfully to the “colored gentleman” whose white teeth gleamed through a whimsical smile. “Trout for breakfast!” she again announced to the men of the party who had been watching the fish deal with unobserved interest, and by this time were convulsed with laughter.
“Come here girls—come ‘Mr. Peter Pan’ and see the shining beauties!” she added, as they came from the tent with hastily arranged toilets.
“Well, I’m glad you are all so tickled to death over our prospective breakfast,” she continued, while the laughter increased, “but I must say the joke—if there be one—seems rather jejune.” Little “Peter Pan” squeezed five little sympathetic fingers into the tightly closed palm of the perplexed girl, led her with gentle determination behind a clump of scrub-pines, drew her fluffy head down to her lips and whispered softly: “I heard Mr. George whisper to Uncle Jim that they were ‘squaw-fish,’ but if I can I’ll try to help you eat them.”
Bess gathered the child into a loving embrace and together they went to supper to face the jolly ridicule.
“I’m the sorriest of all,” chimed in “Peter Pan,” “’cause there’s only one thing that’s better than trout.”
“And what is that other?” questioned Bess.
“Why, it’s doughnuts with the holes fried shut.”
Some fairy must have brought some for breakfast next morning, for there they were, round, fat and golden, with only little puckers where the holes used to be. A tell-tale patch of flour on Bess’ cheek gave away the secret of the early riser.