“Injins are queer critters,” replied the guide, “and it’s just like ’em to try some such a trick. I’ve knowed of such things before.”
“That fellow was desperately smitten, wasn’t he?”
“Yes,” drawled the trapper, “but not much more than another person we’ve got with us.”
“Who is that?” demanded Fred innocently.
“Him as riding alongside of me on his horse. They call him Fred Wainwright I b’leve; and, if I aint powerful mistaken, the gal has took quite a shine to him.”
The poor young hunter almost sank from his beast. He never dreamed for an instant that any one suspected his secret, and he now feared that it had been discovered by all.
“Shoot me, you’re red in the face as a b’iled lobster,” laughed the guide perfectly merciless. “It’s plain enough you’re gone any way. Wal, she’s a pretty critter to look and to have take a hawkerin’ for a feller.”
“Do you think she has noticed me,—that is—that is—”
“Loves you, why don’t you say?”
“Well, yes, if you please.”