“More likely dar’s a tousand!” angrily exclaimed Jim, gathering his implements together, preparatory to making a move. “Dis yer’s a nonsince—jest as we gits in among de gold, dem Injins has to ’gin dar tricks.”
“Hurry, Jim,” admonished the young man, beginning to grow nervous. “It won’t do to be caught here.”
“Dey hain’t cotched dis pusson yit, an’ if dey undertooks it, somebody’ll git hurt. I can swing dat pick kind o’ loose when I makes up my mind to do so. I’s ready—now whar does ye pitch to?”
“Into the cane, of course.”
George Inwood, loaded down with his gun and implements, hurried up the channel of the brook, for several hundred feet, and then, making a sudden plunge to the right, disappeared as abruptly as if the earth had opened and swallowed him. The next moment, his brother Edwin, a lad some fifteen years of age—whisked after him, and then Jim came lumbering along, somewhat after the manner of an ox, when goaded off his usual plodding walk.
“Dis yer’s graceful!” he muttered, not deigning to look behind him to see whether the envious aborigines were visible, “I never did like to trot, s’pecially when an Ingin was drivin’ me, an’ only does it to please de boys.”
“Come, Jim, move faster!” called the voice of George Inwood from some subterranean point.
“Yas, yas, I’s dar!”——
Further exclamation was cut short, for at this instant the indignant African was seized by the ankle with such force, that he fell prostrate upon his back, and, despite his struggles and threats of dire punishment, was quickly drawn out of sight and hearing.
This was scarcely done, when a dozen Mohave Indians swarmed over the ridge of rocks and trees which bounded the northern part of the stream, and scattered here and there in quest of the gold hunters, whom they had been watching from a distance nearly all the afternoon. Each of them was armed with a gun, several displayed tomahawks and knives at their girdles, while the majority had large, beautifully woven and ornamented blankets thrown over their shoulders.