“I’ve seed the time, youngsters, when it wouldn’t a been healthy fur you two fellers to be out here alone. I’ve seed that prairy a’most black with Comanches, an’ have heered ’em yellin’ among these ere very willows. If you had been settin’ whar you are now ’bout fifteen year ago, you would have seed me goin’ through these trees, an’ swimmin’ that ar creek, with a hul tribe of yellin’ an’ screechin’ red-skins clost to my heels. I showed your uncle, this mornin’, the very place whar I onct run the gauntlet of more’n a hundred Comanches. I tell you, youngsters, I know every foot of this ground. Many a time me an’ poor ole Bill Lawson have skrimmaged with the Injuns through here, when it war more’n a feller’s har war wuth to come to this creek arter a drink o’ water. But I told you ’bout runnin’ the gauntlet. The way it happened war this:
“’Bout fifteen year ago, me an’ ole Bill Lawson war trappin’ among the mountains, twenty-five miles from the ole bar’s hole. We, in course, had fine sport, ’cause me an’ ole Bill allers knowed whar to go to find the best trappin’ grounds; an’, by the time spring opened, we had as much spelter as we could tote away on our backs. It war gettin’ purty nigh time fur the Comanches to come round on their spring hunt, an’ we began to talk of leavin’; but thar war plenty of beaver left in the valley, an’ we didn’t like to go so long as thar war any game to trap, so we kept puttin’ it off, an’ when at last we did start, it war too late to get off with our plunder.
“One mornin’, jest at daylight, while I war in front of the shantee cookin’ my breakfast, ole Bill come in from ’tendin’ to his traps, an’ said:
“‘Dick, the valley’s chuck full o’ red-skins. I jest seed more sign down by the creek than I ever seed afore ’bout this place, an’ that’s sayin’ a good deal. We had better shoulder our spelter an’ be off to onct.’
“I didn’t stop to think any more ’bout breakfast jest then, but I ran into the shantee, grabbed my furs, which I allers kept tied up ready for a move, an’ me an’ ole Bill started out. The Injuns must have come in durin’ the night, ’cause the day afore thar warn’t a bit of sign to be seed fur ten miles ’round the valley. But we didn’t stop then to think how or when they got in, but how should we get out. It warn’t no easy thing to do, youngsters—to go through them mountains, swarmin’ with red-skins. They don’t walk through the woods like a feller does when he’s squirrel huntin’, but they go sneakin’ round, an’ listenin’, an’ peepin’; an’ if a chap don’t understand their natur, he’d better not go among ’em.
“Wal, ole Bill led the way, sometimes a’most on his knees, his rifle in his hand, an’ his bundle of furs on his shoulder, I followin’ clost at his heels—both of us keepin’ our eyes open, an’ stoppin’ now an’ then to listen. We had made ’bout a mile up the mountain in this way, when, all to onct, ole Bill stopped and looked straight before him. I stopped, too, an’ seed three big Comanches comin’ along easy like, lookin’ at the ground, examinin’ the bushes, an’ whisperin’ to each other. They had found a trail that either me or ole Bill had made the day afore, an’ war tryin’ to foller it up. But me an’ the ole man warn’t the ones to leave a path that could be follered easy when we thought thar war red-skins ’round; an’ I guess it bothered them rascals some to tell which way we had gone, an’ how many thar war of us. But they did foller it up slowly, an’ while we war lookin’ at ’em they were jined by another Injun, who seemed to be a chief, for he whispered a few orders, an’ two of the Comanches made off. They had been sent to rouse the camp, an’ we knowed that we couldn’t get away from that valley any too fast. The red-skins warn’t more’n a hundred yards from us, an’ we knowed it would take mighty keerful movin’ to get away from them without bein’ diskivered. But it war life or death with us, an’ we began to crawl slowly through the bushes. A greenhorn couldn’t have heered a leaf rustle if he hadn’t been two foot from us; but thar’s a heap of difference atween a greenhorn’s ears an’ them that a Injun carries. But they didn’t hear us, fur as long as we war in sight we seed them still follerin’ up the ole trail; an’ as soon as we thought we had got out of hearin’ of them, we jumped to our feet an’ run like a pair of quarter hosses. We didn’t make no more noise than we could help, but we hadn’t gone fur afore the mountains echoed with the war-whoop, an’ a couple of arrers whizzed by our heads. The Injuns had diskivered us. In course, we both dropped like a flash of lightnin’, an’, while I war lookin’ round to find the varlets, ole Bill struck out his hand, sayin’:
“‘This is a bad scrape, Dick, an’ mebbe me an’ you have done our last trappin’ together. But we musn’t get ketched if we can help it, ’cause we couldn’t look fur nothin’ but the stake.’
“While the ole man war speakin’, I seed one of the rascals that had shot at us peepin’ out from behind a log. He didn’t show more’n two inches of his head, but that war enough, an’ I reckon that red-skin lay thar till his friends toted him off. Jest the minit I fired, ole Bill throwed down his furs, jumped to his feet, an’ run, an’ I done the same, although I did hate to leave that spelter that I had worked so hard fur all winter. But, in course, thar war no help fur it. Thar war plenty more beaver in the mountains, an’, if I got safe off, I knowed whar to go to find ’em; but if I lost my scalp, I couldn’t get another. So, as I war sayin’, I put arter the ole man, an’ jest then I heered something ’sides a arrer sing by my head. It war a bullet, an’ the chap that sent it warn’t sich a bad shot neither; fur, if I had the ole ’coon-skin cap I wore then, I could show you whar a piece of it war cut out. I didn’t stop to look fur the feller, howsomever, but kept on arter ole Bill, loadin’ my rifle as I ran. The woods war so thick we couldn’t keep clost together, an’ I soon lost sight of him; but that didn’t skeer me, fur I knowed he could take keer of his own bacon. As fur myself, I never yet seed the Injun, or white man either, that could ketch me, if I onct got a leetle start of him; an’ if all the Injuns in the mountains war behind me, I could laugh at ’em. But thar war some in front of me, as I found out afore I had gone fur. I had jest got my rifle loaded, an’ war settlin’ down to my work—makin’ purty good time, I reckon, the Injuns behind me yellin’ an’ hootin’ all the while—when, all to onct, up jumped about a dozen more of the rascals.
“I didn’t stop to ax no questions, but sent the nighest of ’em down in a hurry; but in a minit arterward I war down, too; an’ when I war pulled to my pins ag’in, I war a pris’ner, my hands bein’ bound behind me with hickory bark. It warn’t a pleasant sight I seed, youngsters, as I stood thar, lookin’ at them scowlin’ Injuns. At that day thar war few of them Comanches that didn’t know me an’ ole Bill, an’ when they seed who I war, they all set up a yell, an’ began dancin’ ’round me like mad, shakin’ their tomahawks, an’ pintin’ their rifles an’ arrers at me; an’ one feller ketched me by the har, an’ passed his knife ’round my head, as though he had half a notion to scalp me to onct. They kept goin’ on in this way until all the Injuns in that part of the woods had come up to see what the fuss war ’bout; an’ they, too, had to go through the same motions. All to onct they happened to think of ole Bill. The chief set up a shout, an’ all but four of the Injuns put off on his trail. It showed me, plain enough, that the rascals war afraid of me, when they left so many to guard me. But no four of them Comanches would have stopped me from gettin’ away if I could have got my hands free. I tell you, I done my best, makin’ that tough hickory bark crack an’ snap, but it war no go—I war fast. As soon as the others war out of sight, one big feller ketched me by the har, an’ begun to pull me t’wards the camp.