“Dead!” replied one of the men. “Shot down and skulped up in the North gulch.”
“Is Reddy here?” demanded the captain, with a sort of groan.
“Reddy’s handed in his checks, too,” replied the same man. “Tell you what it is, Cap, the boys’ll spile ef they don’t git a chance at them cusses mighty soon.”
“They shall have a chance,” was the stern reply. “I’ll teach the cowardly hounds what it is to murder my men in cold blood. Where is Massy?”
“Right side up, Cap,” replied the man called Massy, a light, active borderer in buck-skins and beaver cap. “What can I do?”
“I want a trailer—one who will track these dogs to their den. Will you do it?”
“I kin try, Cap; but ef I go under, jest send word to my wife that I did my duty, and git my pay fur her. Kin I take out Pat Dada with me?”
“Just as you like. Have you got fresh sign to follow anywhere?”
“Yes; I’ve got the trail they left when Boston Dick went under, last night.”
“That’s enough; now boys, listen to me. There must be no straggling until we find out where these fellows hive. They think to drive us out of the Indian country, but if they do they must fight for it. What do you say?”