“I got it,” he grimly replied. “Had to follow him most to the bottom where his carcass was wedged between the rocks. Morning, Morris. Traveling far? Seen any Injun-signs on the way?”
I shook my head, preferring they should not learn about the three Indians making for Howard’s Creek.
“What does all this mean, Runner? Do scalps grow at the bottom of holes?”
“This one seemed to,” he answered with a deep chuckle. “Didn’t git a fair crack at him, as he was running mighty cute. Rifle held fire the nick of a second too long. I knew he was mortal hit, but he managed to reach this hole. Then the skunk jumped in a-purpose to make us all this bother to git his scalp.”
“Who was he?”
“Don’t know. He was a good hundred and fifty yards away and going like a streak when I plugged him. It’s too dark down in the hole to see anything.”
“For all you know he was a friendly.”
“We never see no friendlies,” Hacker grimly reminded.
“’Cept when they’re dead,” ironically added Scott. “Our eyesight’s terribly poor when they’re alive.”
“I call it dirty business. I wouldn’t have hauled on the rope if I had known.”