“We’d better look sharp,” resumed Jack.
“Keep your eyes open all of you and see that no red rascal leaves the main pack. The moon shines clear and we can easily tell if any one drops into a hole.”
They obeyed his instructions, and leaving the guide to find the way, steadily watched the retreating band. Now they would be sharply outlined against the sky, winding out of view like a tread mill; now they would appear coursing over a level “reach;” and again they would disappear altogether.
“Cuss the place!” sharply exclaimed Burt, as his horse slipped down a low bank. “It’s jest like the old Adirondacks, on a small scale. I’ll bet them devils make two rods ter our one.”
“No, they don’t,” said Jack. “They are held back by our horses—durn ’em. We’ll soon catch ’em.”
“Then what will we do—they are five to our one, and all armed with good rifles the Government gave them?” queried Sam.
“Fight—we can do nothing else. The Government didn’t give ’em rifles—it’s the Ingun agents. They make a handsome profit on the rifles, trading ’em for furs and the like. The Inguns get guns and then turn round and kill whites with them.”
“But the Apaches have no agent.”
“What difference does that make? The northern tribes do—good breech-loading rifles are given them by the stand. There’s such a thing as trade, and swop, and steal—as much among Inguns as whites. The reservation Inguns don’t have much use for rifles, so they trade ’em off to hostile tribes. You bet sometime I’m going to try for an Ingun agency, then—hurrah!”
“K’rect!” came from the guide.