“What are they saying?” Tim asked of the trapper.
“They are talking bad talk at Meetcha, your raccoon,” Barker replied, with a smile. “You let Meetcha catch one. Manetcha is a brave animal near his hole.”
Tim let Meetcha try it, but every time he came within a few feet of a chattering, scolding gopher, the little striped creature turned a somersault and shot into his hole.
“Take him up, Tim,” said the trapper after a few minutes; “we have not much time to hunt gophers.”
They now started their horses at a run for the two nearest settlers and gave them the warning.
“Get away as quick as you can. Don’t follow the road to Fort Ridgely or New Ulm, or you’ll be ambushed there in the timber. Keep a sharp lookout and hide in the grass or brush or corn, if you see Indians. Don’t trust any; they are all on the warpath now.”
Without waiting for the settlers to move, the four horsemen started at a brisk gallop for a third settler at the head of a wooded ravine.
“Keep away from the timber,” Tatanka cautioned them. “Indians like to hide when they fight.”
The riders approached the cabin carefully over the prairie. The door was standing open.
The boys still felt as if the whole story was a bad hoax, but now the two men stopped their horses, examined the caps on their guns, and then Tatanka carefully crept up to the shanty through some scrub-oaks.