“Been with one party of hunters all the time?”
“No; with half a dozen, and once with a party of Indians.”
“Have you learned any thing of the ways of the mountains and prairies in that time?”
“As I expect to be associated with you for some time, I will waive that question for a few months, and then allow you to answer it for yourself.”
“That’s sensible,” grunted Harling, “I’ve only one more question to ax.”
“I am ready to hear it.”
“What brought you out here? A quarrel, love adventure, or what?”
“If any one asks you such a question tell him you are unable to answer it.”
This was a decided reply, and the trapper so accepted it. They had conversed together in low tones, occasionally pausing and listening for any sound of their enemies, but they heard none—nothing breaking the stillness but the solemn flow of the dark river.
“I think,” said Harling, “we had better move our quarters, for these sneaking Comanches can smell a white man, about as far as you can smell water.”