“You’re lucky to get off with your life, you treacherous cur!” he cried. “Now make tracks, and hurry about it, too.”
“All right,” said the leader of the ruffians, still with amazing coolness. “But you pays dear for this hand—you and the gent inside who fires the shot.”
With that he turned his back and hastily strode away, the handkerchief already dripping with blood and leaving a red trail behind him.
Hodge watched until the hurrying man disappeared down the valley. Reentering the cabin, he found old Joe standing near the table on which still lay Bart’s Winchester. The Indian had refilled his pipe and was smoking again in his most imperturbable manner.
“Crowfoot,” said Hodge, with sincere gratitude, “I owe you my life. It’s lucky for me you fired just when you did. An instant more and Bland would have shot me down. How did you happen to be so quick with the shot?”
“Look um rifle over,” grunted the old man. “Pick um rifle up. When Black Eyes him go out, Joe think mebbe white man act crooked. Joe watch him white man. When white man tries to shoot, Joe him shoot.”
“You’re a jewel, Crowfoot!” declared Bart; “but this thing will bring trouble to the cabin in a hurry. As soon as Bland can have his hand cared for, he will lead those ruffians over here to wipe us out. Now is your chance to get away.”
“Oh, no great hurry,” returned Crowfoot. “Plenty time, plenty time.”
“On the contrary, there may be very little time. If you’re going, you had better go at once.”
“Plenty time,” persisted the old man placidly. “Joe too old to hurry. They no come right away. Mebbe Joe him look around a little.”