“Farther than I suspected,” I answered. “The Republican Fork, which I am convinced is the stream out there, is over fifty miles from the Platte, which, with several other streams must be crossed before the trail is reached.”
“Fudge! I don’t believe I can head off them fellows after all, and my old mare and overcoat will go to thunder.”
“They will go somewhere where you will never see them again.”
“I know I’m bound to lose ’em, and I shan’t think any more about them.”
“That’s the best plan, Nat. They are no great loss.”
“I sh’d like to know whether that greaser or fur agent took them though,” interrupted my friend, earnestly.
After this he fell into a fit of musing, and we remained silent for some time. When the fire had burnt low, I arose and replenished it. Nat looked anxiously at the roaring blaze, carrying ashes and cinders high in the air, and reflecting far out upon the dark river, and he remarked:
“Wonder if some Injins won’t see that.”
“I guess not. We are so low down the bank that I think it can be visible for no considerable distance upon the prairie, and the bend in the river fortunately saves us from view up or down the stream. The only point from which it would attract attention is directly across from us.”
“And it looks suspicious enough there,” repeated Nat, in a whisper, removing his pipe and gazing across the river.