THE LAST CAMP 191 
fact, though, most of the natives, who can get both, 
prefer good beef to venison any time. 
We had a visitor that night. It was just dusk, 
and Bert was putting the finishing touches on the 
steak. We were startled on a sudden by a shrill 
falsetto yell. ~It sounded like a woman in distress. 
We listened breathless for a moment and the sound 
was repeated, near at hand. Then out of the woods 
along the trail there trotted a raw-boned white horse 
with a very small rider in sombrero and leather 
chaps, leading a pack mule by a tie rope. He waved 
to us as he approached and Brown rose to his feet 
with an exclamation of surprise. 
“T’ll be doggoned ef hit ain’t that there crazy kid 
brother of mine,’’ he said; ‘‘what in thunder d’you 
reckon he’s a-doin’, comin’ out yere!’’ 
The boy alighted somewhat stiffly, and proceeded: 
to answer the question himself. 
“‘T done brought you all some veg’tables,’’ were 
the first words he spoke, nodding to the pack on the 
mule. ‘‘Lef’ Hillsboro this mawnin’ at sun-up an’ 
bin ridin’ ever sence.’’ 
“‘Chuck’s ready!’’ yelled Bert, at this juncture; 
“‘come an’ git it ’fore I throw it out!’ 
Comment and inquiry were postponed for the time 
being. We discovered later that little Johnny 
Brown, who was just nine years old, had travelled 
forty miles that day alone over the rough mountain 
trails on the chance of striking our camp. His 
father had allowed him to take the trip as a birth- 
