“What about, master?” said the frontiersman.
“And tell me when I may be allowed to mine my silver in peace?”
“No, master, I’m not prophet enough for that. If you killed off all these Injun, you might do it for a time, but ’fore long a fresh lot would have sprung up, and things would be as bad as ever. Seems to me finding silver’s as bad as keeping cattle. Come along, Master Bart. I wish we had some of them salmon we speared.”
“Never mind the salmon,” said Bart, smiling; “we escaped with our lives;” and leading the way, they were soon ensconced in their places, watching the darkness creep over the plain like a thick veil, while the great clusters of stars came out and shone through the clear air till the sky was like frosted gold.
“Do you think the Apachés will come again to-night?” said Bart, after an hour’s silence.
“Can’t say, my lad. No, I should say. Yes, I should say,” he whispered back; “and there they are.”
As he spoke, he levelled his rifle at the first of two dusky figures that had appeared out in the plain, rising as it were out of the earth; but before he could fire, there was a hand laid upon his shoulder, and another raised the barrel of his piece.
“Treachery!” shouted Joses. “Bart, Master Bart, quick—help!”
There was a fierce struggle for a few moments, and then Joses loosened his hold and uttered an exclamation full of vexed impatience.
“It’s all right, Master Bart,” he cried. “Here, give us your hand, old Speak English,” he added, clapping the interpreter on the shoulder, “it’s of no use for us English to think of seeing like you, Injun.”