“Then they’re gathering for a big attack in the morning,” said Joses. “Are they mounted?”
“Yes, all of them. I can just make them out crossing the plain.”
“Well, their horses are only good to run away on,” growled Joses; “they can’t ride up this mountain. Let me have a look, my lad.”
Bart handed the glass, and Joses took a long, eager look through, at the gathering of Apaché warriors.
“I tell you what,” he said, “we shall have to look out or they’ll drive off every head of cattle and every leg of horse. They’re as cunning as cunning, I don’t care what any one says, and some of these days we shall open our eyes and find ourselves in a pretty mess.”
“The Apaché dogs shall not have the horses,” said the Beaver fiercely.
“That’s right; don’t let ’em have them,” cried Joses. “I don’t want ’em to go; but here’s one thing I should like answered—How are we going to find ’em in pasture with all these wild beasts hanging about, ready to swoop down and make a stampede of it, and drive them off?”
“The Beaver’s young men will drive the horses and cattle out,” said the Beaver, in tones of quiet confidence, “and bring them back again quite safe.”
“If you can do that,” said Joses, “perhaps we can hold out; but it don’t seem likely that we shall get much salmon from down in the canyon yonder, which is a pity, for I’ve took to quite longing for a bit of that; and if the Apaché don’t take care, I shall have some yet.”