Gummery Glyndon surveyed the nearest cliff critically. Its base was about a stone’s throw from where he sat. The rising moon threw a silvery radiance upon its peak, disclosing an irregularity near its top, that looked like a cavity in its face, though it might have been only a shadow.
“It’s my opinion the arrow came from there,” he exclaimed, giving utterance to this thought suddenly.
All eyes were turned in the direction indicated.
“But how could any one get up there? A cat couldn’t climb that. It’s as steep and as smooth as a wall.”
“Just you wait,” returned the old guide, coolly. “If this Smoholler is the kind of man he’s said to be, we ain’t done with him yet. Just keep your weather eye peeled in the direction of that cliff, and have your rifles handy. That arrow was only the commencement. I saw plenty of Injun sign to-day, and there may be a hundred of Smoholler’s braves beyond there. I opine that he is not going to let us travel much further into this country, if he can help it.”
“But, man, what harm does our surveying do him?” asked Blaikie.
“He don’t want any railroad through this country—all Injuns are down on railroads—sp’ils their hunting-grounds, and settles up the country. And the white settlers settle the Injuns. We’ve had a genteel notice to leave, and if we don’t take it, we’ll have ’em swarming round us like enraged hornets.”
“You would not advise a retrograde movement?” asked Lieutenant Gardiner.
“Who said any thing about taking the back-track?” somewhat tartly rejoined Glyndon. “Did I? I never saw Injuns enough to back me down yet.”
The lieutenant laughed, as he added: