“In the first place he’s an Injin, and that ought to be enough. I never seen one of his race that it’s safe to trust; they’ll shoot the man that gives them a cup of water or a piece of bread. Talk about Injin gratitude! There aint any such thing.”
“What did my uncle say to your sentiments?”
“He laughed in that quiet way of his, and said maybe as I was right, but he didn’t see what we had to fear from one Injin that was in camp with us; he reckoned we could pull his teeth before he could bite enough to hurt.”
“I am sure he will think differently when he hears my story.”
“Don’t tell him or anyone else a word about it. Promise me that.”
“And why?” asked the surprised Avon.
“Well,” was the hesitating answer, “I’ve several reasons: one of them is that though you and me have fixed on the Comanche as the chap, we aint sure of it. It looks very much that way, but it may be someone else after all. We mustn’t make any mistake, and above all, don’t let Shackaye think we suspect him.”
The youth gave his promise, though in his mind there was no doubt of the identity of the man that had come so near shooting him from his mustang. He saw the wisdom of not allowing Shackaye to know that he was suspected.
The cattle having been located, the couple had little to do but to hold them where they were. This proved less difficult than at other times. They had the help of Burrell, or Old Bronze, in the work, and the three did little but ride back and forth, timing their course in such a way that they skirted the large body of animals, often meeting and exchanging greetings, but more often passing without seeming to see each other.