“Nos vamenos, si.” said Yellow Hand ingratiatingly. “Poco tiempo. Swap?”
“You’ve got a gall,” rejoined Nabours, whose blood now was up as he began to think of what had happened to his herd. “Git on out or I’ll kill you for luck!”
The chieftain turned towards McMasters, whom he again addressed in Spanish. McMasters replied quietly, evenly, evidently arguing and pointing out certain facts which ought to be observed; which facts had to do with spears as against repeating rifles; with buffalo as against beef.
After a time Yellow Hand turned back to his followers, who had sat their horses impatiently. He spoke a few words in explanation. Then, without paying any more attention whatever to the whites, they all turned and rode away.
For the time safe, the white men arose and looked at one another, still almost too much strained for speech.
“Look yonder!” said Nabours at length.
Off to the west and north other Indians were appearing, group after group, evidently the followers who did the butchering of the fallen buffalo. With spears and bows and arrows they were finishing the work which had been begun. Obviously there must be some considerable village not far away, for many or most of these advancing figures were those of squaws engaged in the butchering work.
“They are in no hurry,” said McMasters after a time. “They are willing to wait. Bows and arrows. They don’t seem to have any guns.”
The Del Sol men looked around them for the horses which they had picketed, broke the front before the carts, where now could be heard women’s lamentations. The boy, Cinquo Centavos, was disclosed sitting with his back against the cart front of his mistress, a Sharpe rifle across his knees. Tears were running down his cheeks—not tears of fear.
“My horses is all gone!” said he, sobbing.