Under ordinary conditions the boy would have enjoyed himself to the
limit in the mountains. He loved the forests and the wild places,
the great spaces; he loved the light of the campfire and the rustle
of foliage in the night. However, he was now by far too anxious
to appreciate the outing he was having.
While he lay there trying to sleep he heard the guards whispering
together. They were speaking of the important part Nestor was
playing in the happenings there, and the boy was proud of his
association with the resourceful patrol leader.
In a short time the boy heard the guards moving about as if acting
under strong excitement. There was also the rattle of arms, as if
they were preparing to meet an enemy.
Jimmie crept out of his blankets and crawled to the opening of the
little tent. The guards were crouching low in the shadow of a rock,
with their guns in hand, and the boy joined them.
"I thought you were asleep, kid," one of the men whispered. "Better
go back to your tent. There may be shooting here."
"I didn't come down here to skulk," replied the boy, indignantly.
"Are the stragglers coming here again?"
"There is some one moving about," was the reply.
"Perhaps it is Fremont, coming back," suggested Jimmie, hoping with
all his heart that he had solved the riddle.
"If Fremont ever gets back here," the other guard observed, "we will
have to bring him back. The men who took him away doubtless thought
they were getting Nestor, and they will be so angry when they discover
their mistake that the boy will receive very little consideration," was
the discouraging explanation.
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