“Sogers, too, and those Injuns are Crows.”
The hunter was right, as was revealed by the closer approach of the party. It was composed of some fifty warriors, finely mounted, and arrayed in all their barbaric splendor, accompanied by twenty dragoons of the United States service and two or three officers. They had halted when they descried Silverspur and his friends, but had continued their course on perceiving that there were white men in the party.
“The devil is to pay now!” exclaimed Silverspur, as he reined in his horse, and came to a sudden stop.
“What’s the matter?” asked Old Blaze, noticing his young friend’s look of vexation.
“There’s the governor.”
“Governor who? What governor?”
“My father—Colonel Wilder—that officer on the gray horse.”
“Thunderation! Is Colonel Wilder your father? I should think you’d be glad to see the old gen’leman.”
“But I’m not—just now.”
“Why’s that? We needn’t be afeard of the ’Rapahoes now. Thar’s Crows and sogers enough to take keer of us.”