“Ah, ha! the red scamps want to smell powder again–do they? Well, I’m ready for them, for one, and I have seven boys not an inch shorter than I am, and as good with the rifle as the best, who would like a sight at the varmints. But if none of your folks have seen any stray cattle about the diggins, I must be going. Fact is, I reckon they’ve been driv off by some thievish villain.”
“What sort of cattle were yours?” inquired Mrs. Jones.
“One was red, and the other was a brindle.”
“Was the red one very large, with very wide-spreading horns?”
“That’s the ticket,” said the man.
“I saw such a one last night, going down that way, by our cabin.”
“You did? Was Brindle follerin’?”
“No,” replied she, “but some men were driving him.”
“They were Indians!” cried Tom, excitedly.
But Mrs. Jones fell to scraping the tin pan she held in one hand, with a case-knife, and drowned his words, so that they did not hear, while she motioned to him to be silent. 54