“Jesse Hughes!” I exclaimed, vaulting into the saddle. “These are queer hunting-grounds for you.” Then in sudden terror, “Are the Indians back here in the mountains?”
“Devil take worse luck! No,” he grumbled as he trotted to meet me. “I’m going out to Greenwood’s to see if I can’t git a few shoots of powder.”
“Have you seen Ericus Dale, the trader?” I anxiously asked.
“Yes, I seen the fool. He was making the creek when I come off. His gal was with him and John Ward. Come pretty nigh potting that Ward feller. He’s a white man, but I can’t git it out of my noodle that he ain’t a’ Injun.”
“How did Dale’s girl stand the journey?”
The query surprised him, and he looked puzzled.
“Stand it?” he slowly repeated. “Why, she ain’t sick or hurt, is she?”
I said something about her not being used to riding long distances.
“Long distances!” he snorted. “Wal, if a woman can’t foller a smooth trace on a good hoss for a day’s ride, she ain’t got no business west of the mountains. I can’t stick here swapping talk. I’ve got to push on and git that powder. Curse the luck!”
“The Greenwoods have no powder to spare. He has less than half a pound.”