“Not much, I am afraid, nor us either; but you had a number of friends with you, will they not attempt your rescue?”
Gaylor shook his head.
“No use of looking there; they’ll be sure I’ve been rubbed out, and won’t take the trouble to hunt me up.”
“How many are there?”
“Three beside myself. They think enough of me, too, and, if they thought there was a chance, they would be here in a jiffy; but what’s the use? They even don’t know that I’ve been run off with, but likely enough imagine that I have gone off on a hunt, and they won’t look for me back under a week.”
All three prisoners were seated on the ground close together, the Mohaves allowing them opportunity to converse without molestation, although several scowled at Gaylor, as if unwilling to grant this small boon.
“I see you are dressed as an Indian,” remarked Edwin, in an inquiring voice to Gaylor, who smiled for a moment, and did not reply. Finally, he looked down at his leggins and stained skin, as if their appearance were a new thing to him.
“Well, I don’t see as there is any harm in telling you. This is the style of dress we have all adopted. You see we’ve got particular reasons for not wishing any white men to know we are here, and it was my plan to get ourselves up in this rig, so that if anybody should see us, they would think they was looking at Mohave Indians.”
Edwin forebore to ask the reason for all this, for it was impertinent, but he concluded that Gaylor and his three companions were criminals fleeing from justice.
“I shouldn’t tink such a rapscallion as you would want folks to know dat you was white—don’t blame you fur paintin’ ob yourself,” remarked Jim Tubbs, who was an attentive listener to the conversation.