The greatest danger was with respect to the cattle, which had to be drawn out to pasture along near the side of the lake, and this was done at once, every available man mounting his horse and forming guard, so as to protect the cattle and pasture his horse at the same time.
This was carried on for some days, and a careful watch was kept out towards the plain; but though bodies of Indians were seen manoeuvring in the distance, none approached the mountain, whose flag waved out defiance; and as night after night passed without alarm, there were some of the party sanguine enough to say that the Indians had had their lesson and would come no more.
“What do you say to that, Beaver?” said Joses, laying his hand upon the chiefs shoulder, and looking him in the face.
“Indian dog of Apaché never forgives,” he replied quietly. “They may come to-day—to-morrow—next moon. Who can tell when the Apaché will come and strike? But he will come.”
“There, Master Bart, hear that!” said Joses. “How about going down into the canyon to spear salmon now?”
“The young chief, Bart, can go and spear salmon in the river,” said the Beaver, whose face lit up at the prospect of engaging in something more exciting than watching cattle and taking care that they did not stray too far. “The Beaver and his young men will take care the Apachés do not come without warning.”