“Wait,” interrupts the Indian. “Got more to tell—let Kidd listen.”
“Got more to tell!” The scout drops the duck again. “Out with it, then. What more have ye see’d?”
“Injuns,” is the calm reply. “Me see band of Injuns—on war-path—all hab guns—some hab pale-faces’ scalp.”
“Whar did ye see ’em?”
The warrior points up the river.
“Now, mold me into buckshot, ef this ain’t gittin’ interestin’. D’ye know what tribe the Injuns belong to?”
“Wyandott.”
“Some o’ yer own fellers, be they? What are they ’way down hyur fur? Reckon, though, they’ve come down on one o’ thar maraudin’ tramps, durn thar ugly picters.”
“De chief, he no Wyandott,” continues the Indian; “he not red-man, ’tall. He long-knife.”
“Led by a white man, be they?”