“Where, Beaver?” said Joses.
For answer the chief pointed right away, and both Joses and Bart tried to make out what he meant, but in vain.
“Your eyes are younger than mine, Bart,” said Joses at last, gruffly. “I can’t see nothing—can you?”
“No, Joses,” replied Bart. “I can see nothing but trees.”
The Beaver smiled.
“Ah, it’s all very well for you to laugh,” said Joses, bluntly, “but you’ve got eyes that see round corners of hills, and through clumps of wood and bits of mountain. I never saw such eyes in my life.”
“My eyes will do,” said the Beaver, quietly. “The Apachés are over yonder. They will be on the watch to carry off the cattle or to kill us if they can.”
“Yes, that’s it,” said Joses; “if they can.”
Without another word, the Beaver and half-a-dozen of his followers went down the slope, and climbed the stone gateway, to leap into the plain, where, without a word of instruction, they bore off the body of the fallen Indian, and buried it down in the rift where the other two had been laid, after which they returned to partake of the morning meal that had been prepared—fires being lit in various crevices and chasms off the zigzag way; and this meal being partaken of in the bright morning sunshine, seemed to make the dangers of the night appear trifling, and the spirits of the people rose.
In fact, there was no time for despondency. Every man knew when he came out to adventure for silver that he would have to run the risk of encounters with the Indians, and nothing could be more satisfactory than their position. For they had a stronghold where they could set half the Indian nations at defiance, while the savages could not hinder their mining operations, which could be continued on the mountain if they were invested, and at the edge of the canyon or down below, where there was nothing to fear.