"It iss well," said Arenberg. "Nothing but one chance in a thousand could bring them upon us now, and G.o.d iss so good that I do not think He will let that chance happen."

Arenberg spoke very quietly, but Phil saw that the words came from his heart. The boy still preserved the singular stillness which he seemed to have learned from the Indians, but he held firmly to his father. Now and then he looked curiously at Phil. Phil chucked him under the chin and said:

"Quite a snow, isn't it, Billy?"

"I'm not afraid of snow," rejoined the boy, in a tone that seemed to defy any kind of a storm.

"Good thing," said Phil, "but this is a fine snow, a particularly fine snow. It has probably saved us all."

"Where are you going?" asked Billy.

"Where are we going?" said Phil. "Well, when this snow lightens a little we are going to ride a long distance through the woods. Perhaps we'll ride until morning. Then, when morning comes, we'll keep on riding, although it may not be in the forest. We'll make a great circle to the south, and there, at the edge of the forest, we'll come to a beautiful clear little lake that four men I know call The Silver Cup, only you can't get at the contents of that cup just now, as it has a fine ice covering. But overlooking The Silver Cup is a fine rocky hollow with a neat little thatched cabin in it. We call the hollow and the cabin The Dip, and in it are two of the four persons, your father and I being the other two.

"It's a fine little place, a snug little place, Billy, and there isn't any lodge anywhere on this whole continent of North America that is equal to it. There is a big flat stone at one end on which we build our fire, and just above it is a vent to carry off the smoke.

"Hanging about that cabin are some of the most beautiful skins and furs you ever saw. And then we have rifles and pistols and knives and hatchets, and a shovel and an ax or two, and big soft blankets, and, when we are all in the hut at night, every fellow rolled in his warm blanket, as you will be, being a brave new comrade, and when the wind roars outside, and the hail and the snow beat against it and never touch you, then you feel just about as fine as anybody can ever feel. It's surely a glorious life that's ahead of you, Billy Arenberg. Those other two fellows who are waiting for you, Billy, are as good as any you ever saw. One of them is my brother, who has just escaped from a great prison, where wicked men held him for a long time, just as you have escaped, Billy, from the savages, to whom you don't belong, and the other is the bravest, oddest, wisest, funniest man you ever saw. You can't help liking him the very first moment you see him. He talks a lot, but it's all worth hearing. Now and then he makes up queer rhymes.

I don't think he could get them printed, but we like them all the same, and they always mean just what they say, which isn't generally the way of poetry. I see right now, Billy, that that man and you are going to be great friends. His name is William, just like yours, William Breakstone, but he's Bill and you are Billy. It will be fine to have a Bill and a Billy around the camp."

The boy's eyes glistened. All sorts of emotion awoke within him.

"Won't it be fine?" he said. "I want to see that camp."

Phil had spoken with purpose. He had seen what Arenberg, thinking only of his recovered son, had failed to see, that the boy, taken in his early childhood and held so long, had acquired something of the Indian nature. He had recognized his father and he had clung to him, but he was primitive and as wild as a hawk. The escape from the Indian village had been no escape for him at all, merely a transference. Phil now devoted himself to the task of calling him back to the white world to which he belonged.

All the time as they rode forward in the snow, Phil talked to him of the great things that were to be seen where the white men dwelled. He made their lives infinitely grander and more varied than those of the Indians. He told of the mighty battle in which his father had been a combatant. Here the boy's eyes glistened more than ever.

"My father is a great warrior," he exclaimed happily.

"One of the greatest that ever lived," said Phil. "There were more men, Billy, at that place we call Buena Vista than all the Comanche warriors put together several times over. And there were many cannon, great guns on wheels, shooting bullets as big as your head and bigger, and the battle went on all day. You couldn't hear yourself speak, the cannon and rifles roared so terribly and without ever stopping, and the smoke was greater than that of the biggest prairie fire you ever saw, and thousands of men and horses, with long lances, charged again and again.

And your father stood there all day helping to beat them back."

Phil did not wish to speak so much of battle and danger, but he judged that this would appeal most to the boy, who had been taught by the Comanches that valor and fighting were the greatest of all things. The boy exclaimed:

"My father is one of the greatest of all warriors! He is a chief! He and you and I and the other two of whom you speak will go with a great army and beat the Mexicans again!"

Phil laughed and turned the talk more to the chase, the building of cabins in the wilderness, and of great explorations across the prairies and through the hills. He still held the interest of the boy, and Phil saw the soul of the white race growing stronger and stronger within him.

Arenberg listened, too, and at last he understood. He gave his comrade a look of grat.i.tude. That, Phil always considered one of the greatest rewards he ever received.

They finally found a partial shelter in a ravine protected by trees, and here they dismounted in order to rest the horses and shake the snow from themselves. But they were not suffering from the snow. They were all warmly clad, and, as usual in the West in winter, Phil and Arenberg carried heavy blankets at their saddle horns. One of these had already been wrapped around Billy, and when they dismounted he remained clad in its folds. The fall of snow was lightening somewhat, enabling them to see perhaps twenty feet farther into it, but it was still a vast white gloom.

"I think it will stop before morning," said Arenberg, "and then we can make much greater speed. Are you sleepy, Billy?"

"I do not sleep when we are in danger," replied the boy.

He spoke with such youthful pride that Phil smiled. Yet the boy meant it. His wild life had certainly harmed neither his spirit nor his body.

He was taller and heavier than most boys of his age, and Phil could see that he was as wiry and sinewy as a young panther. He seemed to endure the hardships of the night quite as well as Phil or his father.

"Snow is warm if there is something between you and it," said Phil.

"Let's sc.r.a.pe out a place here against the bank, throw up the snow around us in walls, and rest until daylight. It will be a little hard on the horses, but they seem to be doing fairly well there against the trees."

"It iss wisdom that you speak," said Arenberg.

They threw back the snow until they made a den against the cliff, and the three, wrapped from head to foot in their heavy blankets, crouched in it close together. The snow fell upon the blankets, and, at times, when it lay too thick, they threw it all off. Billy seemed perfectly contented. Either he had no awe of the wilderness, or the presence of the others was enough for him. He had all the quietness and taciturnity of a little Indian lad. He did not speak at all, and did not move. By and by his eyes closed and he slept soundly. Arenberg drew the blanket a little more closely, until only the mouth and nose showed from the blanket, his breath making a white rim around the aperture. Then Arenberg said in a whisper to Phil:

"Young Herr Philip, you have helped me to get back my own. I cannot repay you."

"I am repaying _you_," said Phil. "You have _already_ helped me."

After that they did not speak for a long time. The snow became lighter and lighter, then it ceased entirely. The horses were quiet in the shelter of the trees, and Phil was so snug and warm that he fell into a beautiful sleep, from which he was aroused by Arenberg.

"It iss day, Herr Philip," he said. "Look how the sun shines on the snow."

Phil drew himself out of the hole and looked at a white world, tinted silver in the early dawn.

"Yes, it is time for us to go," he said. "Wake Billy, and we'll ride."

But Billy was already awake, his small face illumined with curiosity and interest.

"Now we will ride," he said to Phil, "and see the men of whom you have told me."

They had some food left, and, after eating it to the last particle, they mounted their horses and rode with as much speed as was wise in the deep snow. Both Phil and Arenberg had an excellent idea of direction, and, guided by the sun, they rode straight toward The Silver Cup. But the snow was so deep and heavy that they were compelled to stop often to let their horses rest, and nearly a whole day pa.s.sed before they saw the familiar trees and slopes that marked the approach to The Silver Cup.

It was a glad sight. They were thoroughly exhausted with a day of plowing through the snow, and the horses were in the same condition. A trace of smoke marked the point at which The Dip lay.

"They're at home to callers, or at least one of them is," said Phil, "and I'll be glad to be on the inside of that hut again, with real red coals before me on a stone hearth."

In order to give the horses an equal chance, Billy, through the day, had ridden alternately behind Phil and his father. Now he was behind Arenberg, and he leaned forward eagerly to see. Before him lay a sort of path trampled in the snow, and, suddenly leaping from the horse, he ran forward with the agility and speed of a deer.

Bill Breakstone and John Bedford were inside the little thatched hut, and the red coals of which Phil had spoken in fancy were really burning on the hearth. They had made no search for Phil and Arenberg in the deep snow, knowing that such a thing was useless. There was not one chance in a thousand that they could find them, while Phil and Arenberg, strong, capable, and brave, were sure to come back. So they took their rest and made the place as comfortable as possible for the return of their partners, who would certainly be cold and hungry.

"John, keep that coffee ready to put on," said Bill Breakstone. "You know that your brother loves coffee when he comes in out of the snow and the cold."

"It will be ready any minute," replied John Bedford. "And I'm glad, Bill, you thought of that little pot of tea for Arenberg. You know he loves to have it about once a week."

"So I do," said Bill Breakstone. "Good old Hans. I suppose that he and Phil made a burrow somewhere in the woods, and slept in it last night.

Naturally it's slow traveling back here through such a deep snow. Now what under the sun is that?"

The rude door of their little thatch was suddenly thrown open, and a small painted face thrust in. But the eyes in the painted face staring at them so intently, were blue, although they did not then notice the fact.

"A little Indian boy," said Bill Breakstone, rising. "Probably he got lost from a band in the storm and has stumbled upon us. We wouldn't welcome a lot of warriors, but we won't repel one boy. Come in, Red Jacket, Tec.u.mseh, Powhatan, or whatever your name may be. We won't hurt you."

To his immense surprise the boy walked boldly in, came straight up to him, and said, in excellent English: "I know that you are Bill Breakstone, and I want to hear you make rhymes."

Bill stared and stared. It was perhaps the first and last time in his life that he was dumfounded. But two larger figures came in immediately behind the boy, and Phil said:

"Mr. William Breakstone, I wish to introduce our new friend and comrade, Master William Arenberg. As 'William' seems a trifle pompous, he is to be known as Billy to distinguish him from you, who remain the Bill that you always have been. Look this way, Billy, and you will see my brother, John Bedford."

Hans Arenberg stood by, so happy that tears rose in his eyes. But Bill Breakstone came at once from his cloud of surprise. He s.n.a.t.c.hed the boy up in his arms and gave him a big hug.

"Well, Billy," he cried, "here you are at last! I don't know how they got you, but they've brought you. Now my first duty as housekeeper is to wash our little boy's face."