“Well, they have, and so you can see that it would be of no use for me to write that letter to General Miles.”
“When did that happen?” asked Harding, who was astonished by this revelation.
“About two weeks ago. You see, the soldiers around here don’t wait to see how things are coming out. The general was convinced of those fellows’ guilt, and he sent them to jail without the least delay; so you are alone in being a squawman.”
Harding was unstrung by this information.
“Dog-gone you, what made you agree to write that letter for?” said he; and the words came hissing out between his clenched teeth in a way that would have made Carl afraid of him had their circumstances been reversed.
“I don’t know that I agreed to write it,” said Carl. “If I did so, I did it simply to gain time toward effecting my escape. You would have agreed to it yourself if you had been in my place.”
“If the general gets his grip on me——”
“Oh, he is bound to get you some time, be that sooner or later; and when he gets hold of you, you will have to go to Leavenworth jail too.”
The squawman plainly saw how this thing could be brought about. If he went with those of the tribe who surrendered he would be hemmed in by soldiers, somebody would be sure to see and recognize him, and he would be put under arrest immediately. If he went with those who were already escaping to the Bad Lands he would, like them, be whipped in a few days, and there, too, the soldiers would bother him. He was not such a bold man as some might suppose. He was ready enough to slip up on a man behind his back and bushwhack him, but when it came to meeting one in a fair fight—that was a little bit too much for the squawman. While he was thinking about it the young scout spoke again.
“I will do the best I can for you,” said he. “I will take the cartridges out of this gun and put it here in the bushes, where you can find it in five minutes after I go away. You can get some more cartridges of the Indians.”