“Did, eh? Found ’em all safe, too? How many be they?”
Wapawah holds up both hands with the fingers extended, signifying ten. Then, by doubling down all but the index finger on the left hand, he reduces the number to six.
“Sixteen in all,” says the ranger, who understands the Indian’s signs perfectly, “sixteen in all. Thar’s jest one more’n I thort they wur. Who’s the sixteenth pusson?”
“He the Yankee,” replies the Indian, the faintest shadow of a smile flitting across his dusky visage.
“The Yankee!” repeats the white man, in some surprise. “He! he! ho! are he with ’em?”
“Yes.”
“Wal, that’s more’n I s’pected he’d do. Don’t like to see the chap git so bold. Did ye tell ’em we wur goin’ to j’ine ’em?”
“Yes; told we stay with ’em all day.”
“Guess we’d better about it, then. D’ye see this roasted bird, chief? Big ’nough to fill us both, ain’t it? Help yerself, an’ let us be off ’thout any unneedcessary waste o’ time.”