Cute shook his head, dubiously.
“Oh, won’t there?” he cried. “There aren’t any Accident Tickets issued on this line yet.”
“The Prophet will protect you!” exclaimed Oneotah.
“Then he will be a profit to us if he does. He’s as smart as a steel-trap, I know, is Old Smo’, so let us go, where glory, or any thing else, awaits us.”
“Do be quiet,” insisted Percy. “Oneotah was giving me some valuable information when you interrupted us. She says Smoholler is her father.”
“I wish I was farther—farther from this!” responded the incorrigible Cute. “It’s a wise child that knows its own father, and Antelope may be mistaken. You know what Glyndon thinks; and if she’s a she, and belongs to he, how can the other matter be?”
“That is just what I wish to ascertain.”
“Fire away then, my boy.”
Oneotah did not hear these words. Percy advanced to her, as she had drawn a little apart while the boys held this whispered conference.
“How long have you been with Smoholler, Oneotah?” asked Percy.