“Good morning, my lads,” Barker greeted them. “Where is Cousin Hicks?”
“We don’t know,” answered Bill. “We haven’t seen him since Friday.”
“Put on your hoots, roll up your coats and blankets, and come along,” the trapper continued. “The Sioux have gone to war and are killing the people all around. You must not lose a minute; a bunch of them may show up almost any moment.”
When all were ready to mount, Tim asked, “What about Cousin Hicks? Will the warriors get him?”
Bill thought he saw a flash of anger in the dark eyes of Tatanka at the mention of Cousin Hicks, and the Indian said something in Sioux which the boys did not understand.
But the trapper laughed and remarked:
“I thought you were a Christian, Tatanka?”
“I am,” replied Black Buffalo in Sioux, “but not when I see that man.”
If the boys had not implicitly believed Barker and Tatanka, they would have thought their story some crude joke, for as they started their horses at an easy gait, they saw no sign of war or Sioux warriors. The dew still lay heavy on the tall grass in the swales, while many kinds of butterflies, white, yellow, blue, and tawny red, were sipping their morning draught of honey from goldenrods and wild sunflowers, and from the fragrant milkweeds and purple lead-plants.
Now and then, a meadow-lark warbled its cheerful song from a knoll or rock, while the little striped gophers chased each other or sat like horse-pins in front of their holes and scolded vociferously at the passing riders.