“Not Simon. I seen Simon once. May be George. I’m just as skeered of him as I be of Simon.”
Knight’s nerves were unstrung. He groaned and complained, “I thought I’d be all right if I could live to reach the river. Now it looks worse’n it did when I was knocking Little Beaver off his feet. What shall we do? I’m fair wore out just from being afraid of what may happen.”
Kinsty frowned at the threads of smoke escaping from the fire-hole vents, and after a while replied:
“We’ve got to make sure. He may be honest as we be. But till we know we don’t want him behind us, nor scouting off one side. See here: only sensible thing for us to do is to take him to Massie’s. If folks there say he’s all right no harm’s done.”
Knight sadly exclaimed:
“Just let me git out of this country! I vow I’ll stay east of the mountains if I ever get back there.”
“Few miles more won’t make much difference,” consoled Kinsty. “If we can s’prize that feller and tie his hands and take him down stream we’ll soon know if he’s all right.”
“He seems to be a pleasant sort of man,” said Knight, now speaking more hopefully.
Kinsty laughed silently.
Then he muttered, “Pleasant? Yes, they can be that. A white man who lives with Injuns from ch’ice can be lots of things. They can wade into the river, with what looks to be blood on their face and arms, and beg for a keel-boat to swing in toward the bank and pick ’em up. No end to the traps they can set. Why, when you first called out I was sure you was bait for the trap that might snag me. Even when I see you, your legs’n arms all scratched and torn, I thought you was fixed up that way to fool me.”