There seemed to be nothing more to settle, and Eph was ready to start.
“I’m goin’ straight for the front of the buildin’,” he said, “for the chance is as good on one side as t’other, but it will take me a good while to git thar.”
“Suppose you run into trouble,” suggested Strubell, “you must make a break for us and we’ll do what we can for you.”
“I won’t do nothin’ of the kind,” was the reply of the trapper, “for that would be the last of you; I’ve got to go under some time, and what difference whether it’s sooner or later? If the varmints jump onto me, I’ll make the best fight I kin, but I don’t want any of you foolin’ round; all you need to do is to look out for yourselves and leave me alone.”
It was useless to argue with old Eph, and no one tried to do so. After all, he was more likely to be right than wrong, though it seemed cruel to remain idle when he was in extremity.
“Wal, I’m off,” he said, rising to his feet and striding down the slope toward the building.
As he did so he formed a striking figure. He loomed up large and massive in the gloom, with his long rifle grasped in his left hand, and his right resting on the revolver which he carried in the girdle about his waist. He took long steps, for he was so far from his destination that it was too soon to creep, but as his moccasins pressed the grass, not one of those watching him heard any sound. The progress of a shadow across the wall could not have been more silent.
The huge form quickly melted into the gloom, and all was still. Not once had the Apaches given utterance to their whoops, and they were so distant that the sounds of their horses’ hoofs could not reach the watchers, a fact which the latter took as proof that the warriors had not discovered their presence on the elevation.