“They have treated us kindly.”
“Yes,” replied the stranger, with a contemptuous expression, “you will find out. You remember the Oatman family that were massacred, except a boy and two girls, in ’49, in crossing the plains?”
“Yes; I saw the son in New York, and one of the sisters, with her chin all tattooed with India ink, which they said the Indians did when they had her with them.”
“Do you know what tribe murdered them?”
“I heard, but I have forgotten.”
“It was these same Mohaves, and there ain’t a more villainous set of dogs this side of the Mississippi. You may make up your mind, as I have, that you’ll never see that sun go down again.”
This was uttered coolly, but with such an air of conviction as to its truth, as to send a chill to the hearts of the hearers.
“Bress de Lord! you don’t mean dat?” asked Jim, fairly quaking with terror. The stranger turned toward him, and said:
“There’s no chance for you, for I never seen an Indian that didn’t hate a nigger, and I’m with ’em there myself. If I could say the word, I wouldn’t get you out of this scrape, for you’ve no business in these parts.”
“Bress your heart! nobody has axed you to say a word; I’d rather hab de ill will ob such a miserable lookin’ darkey as you dan your lub, an’ if you doesn’t like it, all I’ve got to say is, dat I’m at your sarvice, an’ you can help yourself.”