Plain it was that, while he might fail to keep pace with Wetzel, he did not fear this dangerous country, and, if it must be, would face it alone.
Wetzel extended his broad hand and gave his comrade's a viselike squeeze.

To allow the lad to remain with him was more than he would have done for any other person in the world.

Far better to keep the lad under his protection while it was possible, for Joe was taking that war-trail which had for every hunter, somewhere along its bloody course, a bullet, a knife, or a tomahawk.

Wetzel knew that Joe was conscious of this inevitable conclusion, for it showed in his white face, and in the resolve in his big, gray eyes.
So there, in the shade of a towering oak, the Indian-killer admitted the boy into his friendship, and into a life which would no longer be play, but eventful, stirring, hazardous.
"Wal, lad, stay," he said, with that rare smile which brightened his dark face like a ray of stray sunshine.

"We'll hang round these diggins a few days.