“Sure,” said Jack; “couldn’t stop the most important run on the road for a few miserable Ingins,—dead Ingins at that. ’Sides, if we stopped we couldn’t get ’em.”
“Was the snow so very deep up there?”
“’Twant the snow,” said the conductor, smiling and consulting his big gold watch.
“What was it, then?” asked the tourist, becoming more and more interested.
“Well, it so happened that a band of wolves was at that moment passin’ down towards the Uncompahgre in search of food, an’ the moment they got scent o’ blood they pounced upon the prey.”
The young lady caught her father’s arm and shuddered.
“If there is anything a wolf rolls as a sweet morsel under his tongue,” said Jack, glancing at his watch again, “it’s Ingin fricassee, rare and red.”
“Oh, papa!” said the young lady, “let’s go back to the sleeper.”
“You see,” resumed the conductor, “it didn’t matter much, for this was a band of renegades—bad Ingins they are called,—who ought to have been killed some time ago. Their leader, Cut-Your-Hair-Short, was spotted by old Ouray, the chief, anyway. He wanted to marry Cat-A-Sleepin’, Ouray’s daughter; the old man kicked, and what you ’s’pose this Ingin, Cut-Your-Hair-Short, did?”
“I haven’t the remotest idea,” said the bewildered New Englander.