“Who might you be?”
“Harry Knight. A fool. Knew more’n my elders at the station on the Big Sandy,” was the bitter reply. “We got three of them. Then I had to go outside the stockade to prove I knew it all and that the Injuns had gone. Now I s’pose I’ve got to put in a winter in some filthy village.”
Bryant eyed him in mild surprize and asked—
“Know their lingo?”
Knight shook his head impatiently.
“No sense to their jabber. The leader treats me well. I think he likes me.”
Bryant pursed his thin lips and glanced appraisingly at the well-knit figure of the younger man and decided.
“You oughter last three days. They’ll manage to keep you alive for two, anyway.”
“Keep me alive?” repeated Knight. “But I ain’t sick. Bruised and scratched—”
Bryant broke in: