“What’s the matter?” he cried, sharply.
“Hush! Indians,” I whispered.
“Indians? Where?” cried Gunson, eagerly.
“They have gone along here,” I whispered. “Footmarks.”
“Well, don’t look so tragic, lad. They will be friendly ones no doubt; and perhaps there is a settlement near, and we can get some fish. Oh, those are their footprints, are they?” he said; and he turned and caught the rifle from Esau. “That fellow had a fine broad foot of his own.”
“Yes, he must have been a big man,” I said, as I gazed down at the plainly-marked sole and toes in the soft earth.
“Bigger than the one made by Robinson Crusoe’s savage,” whispered Gunson. “There, get out the revolvers, and mind how you handle them. Be ready to hand me one if I ask after I have fired.”
“But you said the Indians were friendly.”
“This tribe never is,” replied Gunson, cocking the rifle and looking sharply round. “They run away generally, but sometimes they show fight, and we must be ready.”
He looked carefully in every direction, and then signed to us to follow.