“A bunch of Injuns, by ginger!” said Cap Hanks; “I hope they won’t pitch their wickiups about here. They’ll beg the boots off our feet.”
“They’re heading this way,” said Dan.
“Holy mither, defind us poor sinners,” said Pat in mock fright. “Me head is bald as a button already; it’s no ither scalp I have to spare.”
“Hike to the shack with that whisky, Pat,” said the foreman, “and put it out of sight.”
“Right ye are, Captain”; Pat grabbed up the demijohn and dashed off. When inside the shack he took another drink, then placing the jug in the cupboard, returned to see the Indians, who were trailing along slowly toward the waiting cowboys.
“Looks like old Copperhead’s band,” said Dan. “Dave Johnson told me they were in the valley.”
“Yes, and they hev been slaughterin’ game; the warden’s watchin’ ’em,” added one of the boys.
“Them Redskins’ll stir up trouble in this country yet,” said Cap Hanks; “they’ll get mean when the new game laws are pulled on ’em. But Dave says he’s going to do it.”
The Indians by this time were filing past the ranch gate a few rods from the barn. A frowsled, straggly band it was, but picturesque withal, with its rough herd of vari-colored ponies, ragged, wolfish dogs, towsled, half-clad papooses, squaws in bright but tattered calicoes, and sober bucks, decked in spangled and fringed buckskins, with gay blankets.
The cowboys, out of curiosity, had dropped their work and gone to the gate to get a closer look at the dusky travelers.