“Not this child. You see, if we make tracks, and War Wolf gets grabbed, the reds’ll certainly think I gave him away. He’s an infernal young skunk, and I’d gladly see him hung; still, it nohow suits my book that he should be just now. So I’ll see it out, but if you’d rather be outside it, don’t stay. We can rendezvous anywhere you like afterwards.”
“Oh, well; it’s no great matter. I don’t care if I stay,” answered the scout, with his usual imperturbability. “Here’s a big burst of rain coming. We’d better get inside the store, anyhow.”
Great drops began to plash around them; there was a steely gleam, followed by a long, muttering roll of distant thunder. As they made their way towards the log-house, the Indians were breaking up into groups of twos and threes, and hurrying away in the direction of a cluster of teepes erected hard by. Failing any necessity for it, they were no more inclined for a ducking than most people. The cavalrymen, beyond taking precautions for keeping their arms and ammunition dry, seemed indifferent to the weather.
“Hello, Smokestack Bill!” cried a hearty voice, as they entered. “So that’s how Nat Hardroper custodies his State prisoners, eh?”
They recognised in the speaker the officer who had arrested them in the Black Hills. With him was Joe Ballin, the scout above referred to. Vipan, especially, further noticed a sergeant and a dozen men posted, apparently by accident, within the room.
“Lord, Colonel,” replied the scout, “you don’t want us to foot the Henniker trail again?”
“Not I,” said the other, with a laugh. “Other game afoot this journey.”
Then at Vipan’s suggestion, drinks were dispensed, the storekeeper—a long, lank Eastern man—participating in the round.
Suddenly the latter exclaimed:
“Snakes! here come three reds. Your man in ’em, Colonel?”