But Tintoretto answered that he wouldn’t.  He also said, in the language of puppy barks, that important discoveries demanded not only his but his master’s attention where he was, forthwith.

There was nothing else for it; the mountain was obliged to come to Mohammed—­or the man to the pup.  Then the miner, no less than Tintoretto, was astonished.

To ward off the barking, the red little hunter had raised his arm across his face, but his big brown eyes were visible above his hand, and their childish seriousness appealed to the man at once.

“Well, cut my diamonds if it ain’t a kid!” drawled he.  “Injun pappoose, or I’m an elk!  Young feller, where’d you come from, hey?  What in mischief do you think you’re doin’ here?”

The tiny “Injun” made no reply.  Tintoretto tried some puppy addresses.  He gave a little growl of friendship, and, clambering over rabbits and all, began to lick the helpless child on the face and hands with unmistakable cordiality.  One of the rabbits fell and rolled over.  Tintoretto bounded backward in consternation, only to gather his courage almost instantly upon him and bark with lusty defiance.

“Shut up, you anermated disturbance,” commanded his owner, mildly.  “You’re enough to scare the hair off an elephant,” and, squatting in front of the wondering child, he looked at him pleasantly.  “What you up to, young feller, sittin’ here by yourself?” he inquired.  “Scared?  Needn’t be scared of brother Jim, I reckon.  Say, you ’ain’t been left here for good?  I saw the gang of Injuns, clean across the country, from up on the ridge.  It must be the last of their drives.  That it?  And you got left?”

The little chap looked up at him seriously and winked his big, brown eyes, but he shut his tiny mouth perhaps a trifle tighter than before.  As a matter of fact, the miner expected some such stoical silence.

The pup, for his part, was making advances of friendship towards the motionless rabbits.

“Wal, say, Piute,” added Jim, after scanning the country with his kindly eyes, “I reckon you’d better go home with me to Borealis.  The Injuns wouldn’t look to find you now, and you can’t go on settin’ here a waitin’ for pudding and gravy to pass up the road for dinner.  What do you say?  Want to come with me and ride on the outside seat to Borealis?”

Considerably to the man’s amazement the youngster nodded a timid affirmative.

“By honky, Tintoretto, I’ll bet he savvies English as well as you,” said Jim.  “All right, Borealis or bust!  I reckon a man who travels twenty miles to git him a pup, and comes back home with you and this here young Piute, is as good as elected to office.  Injun, what’s your name?”

The tiny man apparently had nothing to impart by way of an answer.

“’Ain’t got any, maybe,” commented Jim.  “What’s the matter with me namin’ you, hey?  Suppose I call you Aborigineezer?  All in favor, ay!  Contrary minded?  Carried unanimously and the motion prevails.”