Until that moment I had never dreamed of the exquisite torture that the threat of an Indian raid could induce. I secured my weapons and mounted without realizing what I was doing. My first coherent thought was one of amazement to behold Cousin stuffing smoked meat into his pack with one hand while the other held a tough morsel for his teeth to tear at. He ate like a famished wolf.
“Can’t fight without some linin’,” he mumbled. “An’ we’ll take what’s left along. May git in a corner an’ have mighty little time for cookin’.”
I urged my horse into a gallop. Cousin tore after me, angrily calling on me to wait. I was in no mood to wait, and endeavored to get even more speed out of my animal. Then Cousin brought me to my senses by yelling:
“All right! Kill ’em if you want to!”
I pulled in and he drove alongside, crying:
“First thing you know you’ll be runnin’ into a nest o’ them devils. Their path and our path draws together an’ enters the valley as one path.”
“But we must reach the valley ahead of them!”
“Can’t be did,” he discouraged. “Best we can do is to sneak up on ’em without bein’ seen.”
As a last hope I suggested:
“Perhaps after all they know nothing about the Dales.”