“You must keep your eyes well skinned, Master Bart,” he said, with a grim smile, as they left the plain for an undulating country, full of depressions, most of which contained water, and whose gentle hills were covered with succulent buffalo-grass. “If you don’t, my lad, you may find yourself dropping down on to a herd of Apachés instead of buffaloes; and I can tell you, young fellow, that a buck Injun’s a deal worse thing to deal with than a bull buffler. You must keep a sharp look-out.”
“I’ll do the best I can, Joses, you may be sure; but suppose I should come upon an Indian party—what am I to do?”
“Do, my lad? Why, make tracks as sharp as ever you can to your friends—that is, if you are alone.”
“But if I can’t get away, and they shoot at me?”
“Well, what do you mean?” said Joses, dryly.
“I mean what am I to do if I am in close quarters, and feel that they will kill me?”
“Oh,” said Joses, grimly, “I should pull up short, and go up to them and give them my hatchet, and rifle, and knife, and say to ’em that you hope they won’t be so wicked as to kill you, for you are very fond of Injun, and think ’em very nice; and then you’ll see they’ll be as pleased as pleased, and they’ll make such a fuss over you.”
“Do you mean that, Joses?”
“Mean it, my lad? to be sure I do. A friend of mine did so, just as I’ve told you, for he was afraid to fight.”
“And did the Indians make a fuss over him?” asked Bart.